


Beanie

by polaropposites



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, larry - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, lourry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polaropposites/pseuds/polaropposites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're both too familiar with not being good enough and always feeling disconnected from the rest of the world. Harry uses his camera to capture happiness he doesn't have and Louis works so he doesn't have to face his loneliness. They're looking for something in New York, but they don't exactly know that it's each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There never seems to be a place that feels like home for Harry. He’s been searching for a while, but now as the rain falls again, even New York City doesn’t feel big enough for him to settle down in. Class is boring, but class is always boring when he’s learning about something that was shoved down his throat at every dinner party he attended since the age of 9. He’s surrounded by idiots and that helps none. Whenever the professor asks a question, hands shoot up and people scream over each other just for the possibility of being told they’re correct by a man who looks more like a displaced hobbit than a business professional. He sighs and slides down in his chair, thinking that at least it’s a change of scenery. Instinctively, Harry glances up at the window and smiles. The rain in England was constant, even when it was sunny and 30 degrees out; misery can do that to a person.

England is lovely, really; he holds nothing against the country except that it happens to be the one place on the planet where his father is located. Harry swallows; hoping that the bitter taste that fills his mouth, whenever thoughts about his father appear, goes down with the spit. He dislikes Mr. Styles and he dislikes the UK for housing him. England could’ve been home, until his father sullied every good thing about the place by taking work with him wherever they went. There was always someone new to meet, another lunch to attend, another girl to pretend to pine for so a deal could be sealed. Everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew who his father was. He hated it. Anonymity is really something Harry wants in his life because he’s never had it before, but everywhere he walks on campus he hears a whisper about the English boy with the rich dad. It seems to be his only defining characteristic here at Columbia.

At least his father isn’t here. At least the monotony is broken because he’s not waking up to eggs benedict and his father talking about the NASDAQ. At least he’s hearing about macroeconomics from a different voice than the same one he’s been listening to for the past 18 years.

At least.

He’s in New York because he is running away and searching for whatever is missing from his life. Now that he’s here, it’s apparent that he’s run far enough; now he just needs to find whatever he’s looking for. Running away is often frowned upon, but to be fair Harry got the idea from his older sister Gemma. She left for America a few years back to attend Harvard and get away from their father. They both will do anything they can to stay away from the organized hell their lives were back in England. Monogrammed blazers and political dinners account for more memories in Harry’s head than he wants them to. Everything is business and business is everything; the mantra his father seemingly recited at all times. They were employees, not children, and they were raised on money rather than love.

Gemma left because she was unhappy. Because no matter what happened, she would merely be the daughter who would end up in the company somehow. Harry understands that, but what makes it worse for him is that he has been deemed the next in line for the Styles empire. Most people tell him he should be thrilled, real people notice how drastically different he is from everyone else and how miserable he would be. Harry’s entire existence has been spent living in competition with his father. It’s a frequent family story at the dinner table that the first words out of his father’s mouth were “Well, he’s smaller than I was, but he still has room to grow, so I’m not that disappointed.” Harry seems to be constantly disappointing him and it’s no longer something that he frets about. He’s even turned it into a game.

What can I do today to piss my father off?

Which t-shirt should I wear so my father’s face turns blue?

What can I buy today that there’s a more expensive version of that will make him see red?

Money is the center of his world, but not because he wants it to be. Harry makes very few of his own decisions, even his transatlantic escape was organized by someone other than himself. Now he’s at Columbia; studying a major that he hates because his father is a giant twat. Mr. Styles expects Harry to follow in his footsteps and it makes him absolutely nauseous. He does it anyway though because at the end of the day Harry likes making people happy and even though his Dad will never be proud, his mum couldn’t be prouder.

Harry’s amused by his life to say the least. He believes that he life is a television show written by one of the guys responsible for Doctor Who or something. However, living in America has proven that his family is obviously directly descended from every rich character that’s ever been on ABC Family. He often finds himself laughing a little too hard at the angry disappointed dad on the telly because god his life is just one giant cliché. There was the disappointed Dad that worked too much, the mother who wasn’t happy because the man she fell in love with wasn’t there anymore and of course, the rebel children. The Styles family would make for damn good television. When Harry falls into these daydreams of a televised life he really just hopes that if it’s all fictional that he’s the character everyone is rooting for.

The professor drops a book on the table, telling everyone to turn to some page, but Harry hasn’t left his thoughts. He’s peering around the room thinking how perfect the auditorium would be for a scene in a reality television show. It was rustic, beautiful; Romanesque styles from floor to ceiling. It was a nice change from the normal room they sat in that was full of florescent lights and white walls. It made him chuckle that, despite the fact that Columbia was one of the most expensive universities in the world, they still had light shortages. The class was moved to this auditorium somewhere in Manhattan and it was stunning, it almost made up for the fact that the professor was absolute shit. He’s an old man that probably knows Harry’s father in some way. Harry can’t even remember the older man’s name to save his life, but that also pertains to all the material in the class as well, so he guesses that it’s fitting.

He feels bad for the other kids in the class because he has a history with macroeconomics and if there’s one thing he has to give his father, it’s that he taught him the correct stuff. If Harry had no background knowledge of the subject, what the professor was teaching would probably make as much sense as the success of The Wanted in the music industry (Seriously? Do people not have taste anymore?). And just like that horrid album, the sound of the old man talking makes Harry want to rip out his eardrums and jump off the empire state building.

Desperate for distraction Harry takes note of the decorated chair he’s sitting in. he runs his fingers over the intricate metal designs and sighs. There’s something about being denied passion that makes him wonder how much love went into the beautiful things that surround him. He believes that everything is beautiful because of love. People glow when they’re loved by someone else and to Harry, things do too.

Harry’s heart flutters and he feels stupid because it’s just a fucking chair, but someone loved to make it and they got the chance to. He envied them. He envied them because where every normal person just saw a chair, they had seen their reflection. Their joy echoed back into their ears when they stared at their completed piece of work. It’s possible that he’s romanticizing the iron chair business, but when he looks at the intricate details and the soft curves of the metal, it’s hard to imagine that the person who created it didn’t love what they were making. Harry always sees things differently than most people because he’s in love with sight. It sounds stupid and like a bullshit line some dude will try to use when a girl is talking about pretty flowers and he has nothing to say, but it’s the truth. Everything is beautiful to Harry; it’s the one thing that’s never changed about him. Harry’s camera is an extension of his sight, it makes the beautiful things a bit more permanent. Where other people often see ugly, he sees promise. Because he’s in love with looking and capturing and just seeing.

The other students sitting around him in class are here to go to Wall Street, to become big and rich; they know everything and nothing all at the same time. Well, that’s what Harry thinks. They derive all of their joy off of things that you can purchase with a swipe of plastic. All Harry needs to do is look outside a window or peer over a chair and there’s suddenly an inexplicable joy coursing through his body. They’ll leave class with more knowledge on commodities, but he’ll leave class knowing how dust looks when it’s kicked into the air and gets caught in rays of sunlight. They’re listening intently about business and he’s watching how the reflection of the stained glass windows paint the second half of the room lavender. Who really wins?

Harry takes out his iPhone and snaps a picture of the sun lighting up the curtains in the auditorium in a way that he wanted to memorize. The shutter sound goes off, but he doesn’t care because the image is up on his screen and he’s so in love with it and god, he really loves beautiful things. When he finally looks over his phone he finds multiple pairs of eyes staring at him. The most disconcerting gaze coming from the professor who was standing right in front of him.

“Mr. Styles, I’m not sure how class proceeds in England, but I assure you that here at Columbia phones are not to interrupt classes. I let you into this class because your father is a brilliant man. Do not make me regret that. What you learn here will make you money, snapping pictures will get you nothing. We aren’t here for artistic endeavors, you could have stayed in Europe for that,” the older man chides. Harry meets his gaze until he turns around and walks back to the board. Some arse behind him is chuckling, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. If he cared what other people thought about his “artistic endeavors” he would lose the only beautiful thing about him, which was that he loves something.

The old man rambles on forever, well it feels like forever because Harry mastered market failure when he was twelve and has absolutely no interest in learning anymore. He can do economics in his sleep, he really hopes that never happens, but he could do it none the less. He’s well versed in commodities and unanticipated inflation; he’s supposed to rise to the top of a financial empire, how could he not? He’s been hearing about these things since before he could even spell them, there was truly no point in him occupying the chair he was in. Finally, he checks the clock in the back of the room and it reads 1:00. He tosses everything into his bag, takes out his iPod and proceeds out the classroom door.

“Hey, foreign hipster fuck,” one of the many blond, monogrammed blazer wearing bastards calls after him. “Wanna take my picture?”

Harry turns around with a dimpled smile plastered on his face, waiting for the ensuing nonsensical, belligerent, insults that are bound to follow.

“Daddy gives you everything you need huh? But gayboy rather use a camera than be rich? You look like shit. Where’d you get those pants from? American Eagle?”

“Is that a proper insult out here? I thought New York was full of tough guys, but the only thing you can make fun of is where I bought my trousers? How about this, have you checked the stocks recently? I happened to during class after using my camera like the hipster queer that I am; you might want to check. There was something about a drop in the NASDAQ and how a few companies lost 15% or more. You might want to make sure your last name isn’t tacked on to one of them or on their list of investors, mate.”

“You’re only here because of your father,” the now furious meathead screams. Harry’s fake smile becomes a real one; amusement is shining in his eyes because damn, these people are idiots.

He chuckles and puts on his beanie as he turns away, “There’s no difference between us there. Maybe I am here because of my father, but the actual difference between us is that I’m actually smart enough to be here and you’re just rich enough to be here.”

Harry continues to walk away and doesn’t even bother to turn around to verify that the guy is still standing there with his jaw on the ground because the little gay boy had the balls to defend himself. If there’s one thing Harry’s learned, it’s that he has a mouth for a reason (other than blowjobs) and he won’t allow himself to be quieted for another 18 years. He presses play on his iPod and walks down Broadway to get to Butler. Liam’s at the library, again, unsurprising for an undergraduate, but Liam’s there more than the graduate students and it’s becoming a problem. The older lad is the same year as Harry studying Poli Sci because he wants to be a better person than the rest of the world. Liam wants to be a pro bono lawyer and save people; Harry just wants to take pictures of pretty people. It’s no question who’s the better person, Harry thinks, smiling to himself because Liam is genuinely good and no one deserves success more.

The back of his converses start to rub blisters onto his heels so he turns down into subway entry right as You make it seem like nothing starts to flow through his headphones. He grunts as he realizes he has to get another metrocard and pays in cash because the golden dollar coins are really fucking awesome and he’s allowed to be a child sometimes because he’s only 18 dammit (really, there’s no one judging him except himself). He runs the card through the slot twice before it lets him through to the other side. He sees that screen that says that the 1 heading downtown is arriving, so he sprints down the steps and to the front of the platform so he can seat at least for a moment. He gets to the end of the platform as the train pulls up, he notices that the car in front of him is full of people and he moves to the side so when the door opens he can come out. Harry looks to the side quickly, thinking that he hears another accent, and when he does he thinks he sees the exact same green beanie he’s wearing, on the head of a shorter man, but before he can figure it out the doors open and the crowd of people once hovering in front of the door are now walking through it. When traffic clears the guy is gone and Harry feels a little pang in his chest like he missed an important appointment with fate. He jumps into the car as the doors slide closed and closes his eyes to lean again the window — why does he always miss the important shit?

The train arrives at 116th and he pretends to understand whatever the train operator is saying. He bows his head at the weight settled in his chest and chides himself for always thinking that the people he accidentally sets his eyes on are supposed to change his life. What the hell is some man in a beanie going to do for him? How was he going to change his life? It didn’t make any sense to be mad about it and he was actually quite irritated with himself. Harry exits and see a flash of green to his right, but when he turns his head there’s just a sea of people, so he doesn’t even bother to think that it was anything but an illusion created by a desperate heart (and if he was honest, a really desperate dick because come on, it’s been a really long time and he’s only a teenager after all). He gets above ground and cuts across the street heading towards the library that Liam has made home. Harry barely misses getting hit by a taxi, but just jumps back on the sidewalk like it never happened. He does like New York more than London and he’s pretty sure it’s because the people here are too busy to care that he has a brick on his chest and he likes knowing that he can be hurting and no one will ask him to explain, so he never has to worry about it.

He decides to walk through Alfred Learner Hall, offering up fake smiles and small waves to the random group of people who have suddenly decided he’s important enough to say hi to. He wants to stop and get coffee from Starbucks, but the girl from his bio class is there and she’s been trying to talk to him since he showed up at orientation. He didn’t mind girls, really, but when they pulled down their shirts and pulled up their skirts before walking over to him; he had no interest. All that made obvious is that they were there for a social up boost and nothing more, so the moment she turns and waves Harry finds the door exceptionally interesting and walks out into the courtyard. He all but sprints to the library just in case she truly is completely mental and decides to follow after.

He jogs through the doors and gets a couple glares from students and librarians alike. He goes to push the button on the elevator, but he’s already half drenched in sweat from the “get away from the golddigger” marathon he’s just finishing running, so he just takes the stairs. Harry exits on the third level and heads straight to the study room Liam’s in, barging in unannounced and frowning at the fact that Liam’s gotten so used to him being a wanker that he didn’t even flinch.

“How’s it going?”

“Well you know, it’s philosophy, so I only partially want to throw myself off a bridge while quoting Confucius. Why are you drenched in sweat?”

“The bird from bio was in Alfred as I passed through to get here; I didn’t want to risk anything.”

“She’s only a girl Harry, not a demon.”

“Easy for you to say, she doesn’t want a fancy London Links bracelet from you.”

“You don’t know that she’s like that,” Liam scolds, brows connecting in the middle of his forehead like he can’t fathom the idea of someone wanting more than just a smile from Harry. “You’re very personable, maybe she just likes you. We clicked instantly.”

“We were forced to live together, we don’t really have a choice Li. You always see the good in people, so you don’t understand. However, I always expect the worst so I can be pleasantly surprised when people turn out to not be absolute shit.”

“Such a poet?”

“Don’t you know it!”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Me? Never,” Harry deadpans, staring at Liam like he’s a complete idiot. Liam just smiles fondly back before moving his gaze back down to the book in his hands. The school had him reading something about Taoism for some reason and most people used the textbook for information, but while he was googling Taoism he saw there was a book called The Tao of Pooh , which was a story about the religion and it had Winnie the pooh. It was honestly the best decision of his life.

“Eeyore kill himself off yet because he’s a miserable bastard?”

“No. Don’t talk about Eeyore like that; he’s a really nice donkey.”

“Is there anything on this planet you won’t defend for free Liam?”

“You,” Liam immediately responds, laughing at Harry’s face.

“You’re getting better at the unexpected making fun of me thing, I couldn’t be prouder. I’ve corrupted you properly.”

“Don’t give yourself all the credit; New York is half to blame. If I didn’t start being a little bit cheeky someone would have murdered me for my metrocard already.”

“Oh, I love it when you get all dramatic; it makes me have faith in the world because if Liam Payne can be stereotypical that means I’m not as big of an asshole as I thought,” Harry cheers, throwing his arms back like someone just kicked a successful field goal.

“Nope, you’re as much of an asshole as you think you are. Don’t try and use me to work your way out of that one.”

“Gee thanks, love you too bro.”

“Anytime, “ Liam replies, going back to Pooh and Piglet learning another step in the process towards enlightenment. Harry takes off his backpack and stares at the ceiling until all of the black dots in the ceiling start to merge together into one giant black hole.   
Liam looks up from his book to see Harry green eyes mesmerized by the tiles in the ceiling, “Well, I know I’m busy, but you’re never this quiet. You’re ‘I’m having an existential crisis’ quiet and it’s a little unnerving.”

“There was this guy at the train and I just have this huge feeling that he’s someone I’m supposed to missing you know?”

“I have no idea. Sorry mate,” Liam confesses, because sometimes Harry gets artsy with his words and he’s used to interpreting useless quotes on the morality of man.

“I just feel like he was a piece of my puzzle and I’ve let him get eaten by the cat. It’s strange, because I didn’t even see more than his profile, but I can’t let him go. He’s stuck in my brain and it’s irritating.”

Meanwhile, back up at the Subway station, the beanie boy is setting up his hot dog stand after sprinting down the road to take it off the hitch of the van his boss drove. He was continuing on with his life as Harry wondered if time should’ve stood still the moment his green eyes met green beanie. Well, at least it’s Friday, he’ll have all weekend to wallow about what could have been.


	2. Chapter 2

He was late again — he was late again and shocker, it wasn’t his fault. He tells all of his employers that it’s imperative that they let him out on time, but they never do. It’s like they don’t understand English, which is quite hilarious because Louis is the immigrant — he thinks. They all act like he speaks an entirely different language. Yes, his English comes with an accent and a few more s’s, but it’s still quite clear what he’s saying. Dialect differences aren’t that difficult to handle and he’s pretty sure that asking to get off on time sounds the same in England and in America. Then, the trains took forever because everyone was heading home at the same time and the station was crowded as he tried to sprint through the people to get to the cart; he had no chance.

In reality, most people would probably look at him oddly if he told them he was in such a rush to get to a hot dog cart, but pride is pride. He’d sprint to work even if it was licking the dirt off of windows. Louis shakes his head and grimaces at the thought because that was fucking weird, even for him. He follows it with a chuckle because at least you can say your life is interesting when you manage to surprise yourself with idiotic thoughts. He finishes setting up the cart and stands there staring at the huge campus across from him. He wonders if he should be envious; jealous of all the people that walk past him without giving him a second look because they have some class to attend that’ll make them millionaires in a few years.

Louis puts his hands down on the cart and steadies his breathing. He wants to think that he’s just out of breath because of the run from the station, but deep down he knows that’s not the only reason; thinking about the future feels something like getting hit by a truck. All the air seems to leave his body and it just hurts everywhere because he has no idea what the hell he’s doing, at all. Buying the plane ticket to New York was the most dangerous and equally spontaneous thing Louis has ever done. He loves it, mostly. He’s living in a shitty flat in Brooklyn, above a locksmith that makes copies of P.O. Box keys. Right next door there’s this new hipster bar that’s opened up that makes Louis want to set the world on fire. He would set it on fire if he didn’t work there and if he wouldn’t go to prison, but alas, both statements are real reasons to avoid arson

He loves it though. He really does love everything about being here – about being in New York. Anywhere but England is great, but New York feels… destined. Destined to bring him something. Hopefully. If he’s lucky. Really that could be just the hysteria talking as he realizes that he’s selling hot dogs for a part of his living. Louis isn’t sure why selling hot dogs is the most embarrassing job for him, but it is.

He works topless 5 days a week and 6 days a week he’s working topless while covered in glitter, but the hot dog stand really takes the cake for embarrassing workplace. If he really thinks about it, it’s probably because serving a hot dog takes approximately two skills: knowing how to follow directions and hand-eye coordination. All he has to do is stand and he makes money, which is why most of the food carts in New York are run by families.

Louis in his desperation when he first got to America went searching on craigslist for both a place to stay and a roommate. He got both and thankfully Zayn isn’t a mass murdering bastard and a hot dog stand is the sketchiest job he has. The old man had been practically begging people to run his hot dog stand for him. He had two older sons, but they had both went off to uni, unlike Louis, and left the throne to the Nathan’s kingdom open.

Now, Louis is the prince of hot dogs, his mum would be so proud. It truly makes him feel like a resounding success, truly, like, seriously, truly makes him feel like he’s a little less worthless because he stands and puts ketchup on things for a part of his living, really. He took the job of someone else’s kids while they ended up at fantastic schools, so they could have careers. Seriously, Louis wasn’t jealous or anything, he has immense talent in the professional job juggling industry. He should be proud.

He slams closed the tin hiding away the hot dogs he would be serving for the rest of the day. Well, at least he gets paid hourly, most the people who run these carts only make money based on the amount of food purchased by them. It’s just that the old man was so happy that someone was willing to work the cart that he was offering hourly pay and pay based off how much was sold. Honestly, Louis is a little uncomfortable with the amount of love this man had for a hot dog cart. He’s pretty sure that the hot dog cart has an owner that loves it more than Louis has been loved by anyone in his entire life.

However, it made him want to work harder because the man was being so nice to him and it was obviously incredibly important. He might be a bit of an arse, but he would never disrespect or try to ruin something that is obviously so loved and so vital to the existence of another human being. He’d been there before and although it wasn’t an inanimate object, there’s no way to control what you feel, so he gets it, kind of. Even if it’s just various parts of a pig and more high-fructose corn syrup than he’s even encountered in his life, things that people love deserve to be cherished.

He chuckles again, except this time it’s more mocking than anything, because he wants to be a hot dog cart so someone will care about him. He takes off his beanie and runs his fingers through his hair because that’s a brand new low for him and he’s pretty damn sure he doesn’t like it. He’s never been loved as much as a hot dog stand. He has never been loved as much as soldered metal and food, how absolutely depressing. It’s not like Louis needs to be in love, he’s not that kind of person.

He just wants to feel love in a way that’s not familial, even if it’s just for something as opposed to someone. Louis’ problem is that he is the physical manifestation of mediocre. He’s okay at so many things, but he’s great at nothing. He’s good at selling hot dogs, but certainly not the best. He’s good at mixing drinks, but not the best. He’s good at getting tips from flexing a little while being covered in glitter, but not the best. Louis is okay. Louis is alright. Louis is nothing special. Well, at least now, Louis is nothing special in New York City instead of being nothing special in Doncaster and London.

Louis is pretty sure that 20 is the worse age he’s ever been. 20 is the identity crisis of the ages. 20 is misunderstood and beaten. 20 is about as tired as he is while running to his second job of the day. 20 for Louis means weekly existential crises and an inability to understand what he can and cannot get away with now that his age doesn’t end in teen. 20 means a new country, new jobs, but the same confusion and the same old shit.

20 and almost October, means 20 going on 21 with no sign of a promising future. 20, almost 21, means he’ll be able to legally drink what he serves at the bar, while also being 21 and not having any career prospects other than a bell boy-bartender-retail worker-hot dog seller combination that is pitiful, at best. 20 — almost October – 20, almost 21, means it’s been a year since he’s felt anything special. 20, almost 21, means it’s been a year since he’s felt anything at all. 20, almost 21, means almost 21 years of successful mediocrity. Louis isn’t wallowing, no; it’s just how life is. He’s also not a cynic, he’s just realistic.

19, almost 20, meant to Louis a year ago, saving for a new start, saving to fight off pain, saving to save himself. 20, almost 21, means he saved up for a flight to New York that got him away from one problem, but amplified all of his other ones. Louis at 19 thought that there was something special about him somewhere. Louis at 19 thought that there was something in the world he was great at. Louis at 20, knows that being unique doesn’t mean anything in a world where everyone is different. Louis at 20 is currently standing in front of hot dog stand, after sprinting from the souvenir store to the train because he has to work twelve jobs, a side effect of mediocrity.

He tries not to complain because even though he has about a dozen jobs, at least he wasn’t sleeping on the sidewalk like all the people he passes on his way home at night. Louis lives in a shitty flat, a tiny studio, but he loves it and his roommate. He loves Zayn. He was genuinely surprised when Zayn met him and didn’t run in the opposite direction. He was so pleased when he ran into the younger lad who had an equally baffling accent to New Yorkers. They bonded over their lack of home and the fact that they remind each other of the places they miss most and the people they miss most and why they left all the same.

He walks to Manhattan every day because the Williamsburg Bridge is closer than the train station. He loves New York. He loves not being back at home. Louis’ mum has told him that he could come back at any time. She keeps telling him that it’s okay to fail, that he could come home, but he never would. Jay always says he could come back, but he has too much pride and too much hurt to make his way back to his home country. There isn’t much there for him anymore. Jay is lovely, but she depended on him for everything. He felt more like a live in nanny than part of the family most of the time. He has four sisters that he misses dearly, but playing Dad got old fast. He can’t go back if he cares about his mental health; there were too many expectations and never enough hours in the day, which is why he tries so hard to make it all work.

Except, Louis doesn’t exactly know whether or not New York was the best decision. Maybe he should have gone to Kansas or something. Dorothy was the only interesting thing to come out of there, so there must be a large amount of mediocrity present; unlike how everyone in New York has something special about them. He feels small and useless here, even more so than back home. But at least there are new starts and tons potential.

It’s a wonder that Zayn even keeps him around, really. He does pull in a lot of money, but his clothes are also strewn all over the place. There are some articles of clothing that have been on the floor since Louis moved into the house. Plus. the fact that he never cooks, never cleans, and has clothes on the floor that he can’t remember whether or not they’ve been washed in the past five months. The point is, he makes their apartment an absolute wreck, but Zayn still welcomes him home every day with a smile. He honestly has no idea why, but he’ll always be forever grateful. No complaints because he walks by at least 5 people sleeping on the sidewalk when he walks home and well, no matter how simple his jobs are, he has jobs.

He thinks he smells the onions burning, so he stirs them and the sauerkraut while also trying to avoid sucker punching himself in the throat. Louis tries to repeat his last thought, remind himself of his good fortune, but as another rich person walks by in shoes more expensive than the building he lives in, it’s hard. Then a tourist pops by and buys a bottle of water, bitching about how it’s cheaper back home, wherever home is and Louis zones out. He stares aimlessly at the buildings around him, interrupted when his only regular drops by.

This man comes by the stand every day at the same time. Louis has been trying to make a game of it since he figured out the man would be stopping by frequently. It’s been hard though, because every day, including today, he’s always wearing something strange. Some days he’ll look like a professional and other times he’ll look like a teenager. Louis always wants to ask, but New Yorkers don’t have time for conversation, so he just makes the man’s hot dog every day and gives him his change. The guy gives him a nod, not even looking up from the book he has in his hand after he grabs his dollar.

Louis doubts that the man could pick him out of a line up. He notices every time, how all of his customers, regulars or not, manage to look right through him. He guesses that’s one thing he does miss about England, good light or bad light, at least he was seen. He’s always been different. Both by choice and by default. He’ll admit that a chunk of his outgoing personality is practiced, but the gay, well, that came standard. Loud and gay became his defining characteristics — there’s no shortage of that in New York.

There’s a blank space, a blank space where happiness should be somewhere in his heart. Fuck. It’s like no matter where he turns there’s an existential crisis and an anxiety attack waiting for him. He stares and watches as the sun moves across the buildings; switching his feet back and forth as the hours spent on them start to take its toll. He’s trying to become okay with this new life because it is without a doubt better than his old one. He’s not asking for a miracle, hell, he’s not even asking for a situation where he would just have to work one job. He wants someone to get him. He wants a hot dog cart himself. What really does the world mean to someone who has no one but themselves to account for?

When the sun sets and the old man pats him on the back for his job well done, Louis heads towards the train station. Now is the time where he actually lets himself ponder these thoughts of company. It’s now, as he’s making his way home that he allows himself disappointment. He’s never sure whether or not he’d be able to stomach it when he has to focus on other things – it’s crippling. He walks by dozens of reflective surfaces, seeing himself in every piece of glass he walks past feeling absolutely invisible.

He chides himself that every commute back home is the same, filled with these heavy thoughts that make him more exhausted. He should be a veteran of conquering hurt and misfortune at this point, it’s been his whole book to date. Every chapter is filled with another kind of hurt and letdown, but he isn’t okay with it; it hasn’t stopped hurting. He hasn’t stopped hurting. But he hasn’t stopped trying to piece himself back together. Louis can’t stop; he refuses to let anyone else put together his puzzle. He has to learn how to do it himself because chances are everyone who learns how to do it will leave anyway.

He decides to get off the train before it makes it into Brooklyn and finds himself eye to eye with the bridge he crossed over in the morning. These thoughts always attack him when he’s too tired to hold the mental block up. He feels a little hope, a little hope that something will come along. The walk across the bridge tonight teaches him the same lesson it does everyday: some things just take time.


	3. Chapter 3

Saturdays never really ever feel endless, but today seems different from the moment Harry bangs on his alarm clock, aka phone, just to realize that he has to actually use the phone like a modern human being. He was just so tired because he spent the rest of Friday night with Liam at the library because being in the apartment alone wasn’t something he liked, well, being alone wasn’t something he liked in general, but that’s a completely different story.

He had wandered around the building while Liam kept muttering to himself about not being able to handle Kant, giggling every time the phrase “I can’t handle Kant,” came out of his mouth. Harry hid in the library people watching and sprinting when the infamous “gold digger” managed to make her way into his personal circle. The diameter of said circle is about 10 meters, but Harry really doesn’t like her so he didn’t feel bad for running away like she was a mass murderer. Fortunately, his dramatic escape had lead him to the antique book section of the library he had never seen before; he took pictures.

After unlocking his phone and staring at it blankly trying to remember what the name of the app he needed to go to was in order to shut off the alarm, he regretted it a little. Except not really, because hues of brown, blues, and red seem to mesh perfectly when distributed on the covers of books older than the country he was attending school in. The pictures sitting in his camera on his dresser were more than worth the extra effort he has to put into keeping his eyes open. He bounds out of bed smiling because it’s Saturday and fuck he should be up and excited because it belongs to him and him alone.

Every Saturday Harry hopes out of bed in the morning at 10 a.m. to go around the city taking pictures of whatever he wants. He gets to focus on what he loves and doesn’t have to worry about quickly taking a shot because English is at noon and he’s ten blocks away. Nope, he gets to casually stroll down every street snapping pictures of whatever catches his eye. Harry often wonders if he’s so enamored with this city because it isn’t his, but honestly, it seems to be more true every day, New York feels more like home than London or Holmes Chapel, or England entirely, seemed to be. 

He makes his way through his morning routine brushing his teeth and showering with a bit of urgency that probably wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t had economics yesterday and if he hadn’t run into another existential crisis while getting on the train. He had the worst sleep since he left England. He hadn’t been so restless in bed since his Dad’s expectations used to try to suffocate him as he closed his eyes. It’s like he had stapled the memory onto the back of his eyelids. Harry laughs at himself as he tugs on his pants, he struggles and wonders why he wears his pants so tight in the first place, but too late now. 

He’s still chuckling as he pulls over his shirt because it’s like Harry’s life has a thing for choosing demons that he has absolutely no control over (three cheers for not being able to decide who’s the sperm donor for your life!). Liam had made fun of him the night before because Harry zoned off every time someone with a hat walked past. This lad with a beanie has becoming Harry’s new obsession and Harry is really bad with obsessions. He dwells in them, creates a whole new world for them. Harry holds on to the unreal because everything real seems to slip through his fingers and out of his control. However, those are thoughts way too deep for 9 in the morning on photography day.

Photography Day. Just thinking about it gets a new, more energetic, skip in Harry’s step. When he sees Liam at their kitchen table he audibly groans.  
“Dude! It’s not even been a month yet; how are you so lost?”

“I can’t man.”

“Stop with the Kant jokes you wanker,” Harry mutters out, but as he turns to the fridge Liam bursts into laughter.

“Didn’t even mean for that one to happen mate.”

“Whatever, that was literally your go to joke every five minutes last night, man.”

“Give me a break!” Liam shouts throwing his hands up in the air. “Come on! Do you even know what ‘All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason. There is nothing higher than reason.’ means? What the hell is reason?”

“No, I don’t,but I’m not taking a class on philosophy and I’d shoot myself before I’d become a lawyer, so I don’t have to. I also have a feeling the point of this class is for you to figure out what reason is, not your roommate.”

“You’re the best mate I could ever ask for,” Liam says, shooting a glance at Harry that says that he’s being as sarcastic as possible. It’s just that the affection is his eyes screams that he does genuinely enjoy Harry’s presence.

“You love me,” Harry cockily retorts.

Liam sighs, running a hand through his hair, promising himself that he’ll get better at fooling the younger boy some day, “unfortunately.”

Harry made himself a bowl of frosted flakes, inhaling them before Liam finished the next paragraph in his book. He makes his way back to his room after rinsing out the bowl to throw on a jacket. He comes back out and giggles as he sees the same page up.

“Really struggling with this aren’t you, Li?”

“Shut up!”

“You could just get a tutor they have free ones too.”

Liam turns red and says indignantly, “I do not need a tutor!”

“You don’t need a tutor and I don’t need mental help. This is an apartment full of denial.”

“You are pretty crazy,” Liam replied. Harry raised his eyebrows and smirked.

“We’ll you’ve been in that same page for ten minutes; I rather be crazy than need a tutor.”

“I try really hard not to call you names, but you’re a shithead.”

“So I guess that means you Kant come out with me today, huh?”

“I swear if I hadn’t known you for so long I would hate you.”

“So you can make Kant jokes,” Harry pauses raising his eyebrows. “But I Kant?”

“You’re an irritating twat.”

“Well there you go! An actual insult! I’m guessing that you won’t be coming out with me today?” 

Liam shakes his head sadly and he genuinely is sad. This is their thing, kind of. It’s Harry’s thing, but he’s shared it with Liam for years now. It’s been their secret because Harry was never allowed to do something so insignificant with his time and Liam wasn’t allowed out unless it was with the socialite of the year. They bonded over their mutual distaste of their lifestyles. Harry wanted freedom and Liam just wanted to help; together they were some classic superhero duo out to save the world. He misses it; he really really does. Harry always looks so happy when they go out and that alone is rare. A genuine smile on Harry’s face, might as well be the cause of people getting sainthood because it’s a miracle. Yet, going outside, trailing into cities, walking anywhere with Harry and his camera, is bound to create some moment. A moment where Liam just gets to smile and watch the most important person in his world and it makes Liam happy.

Harry is one of the best people he’s ever met. Sure, he’s a little screwed up and all sorts of damaged, but he makes do. Actually, he thrives. Liam doesn’t know how, but Harry manages to be everything he needs to be all the time. He would envy him, but he likes being behind the scenes. He was raised that way — to be the supporting act. He remembers following Harry around at first, thrilled and equally scared of this sense of adventure that developed whenever there was a picture to be taken. Liam has a lot of good memories; he wants to finish with this struggle so he can make more with his best mate.

Harry can sense the nostalgia in the older lad and starts to feel it too. The long walks through Hyde Park — trying to avoid paparazzi— feeling like teenagers for once in their life. There was a moment, a moment where Harry thought that maybe Liam was that one or the one; it wasn’t true. Harry’s glad it isn’t true though, because friendships lay on a much more solid foundation that relationships do. Plus, the pedestals don’t go as high because people, who get as close to you as Liam has to Harry, know how much a fucking idiot you are deep down. They just love you for it. Harry runs a hand through his hair and offers up a sad smile.

“It’s been awhile hasn’t it, Li? You know? Just the two of us out there in the big world trying to be small — I miss that.”

“I’m sorry Haz, I’m sorry. I’ve.”

“No. No. I don’t want you to apologize. I live with you for fucks sake. I know you’re not in here wanking to I don’t even know what and watching the telly. You’re busy, we’re both busy. I just, don’t forget I need you still.”

Liam clears his throat and pretends the stinging in his eyes is from staring at size nine font for too long. 

“I can’t forget even If I tried. You Kant forget either;I need you too.”

Harry smiles, green eyes lighting up with delight because of course Liam made the air in the room light again with a stupid philosophy joke. Harry walks over and gently slaps Liam on the cheek and they both know it’s less imatwatyoureatwatwerealltwats and more iloveyoumanseriously. Liam smiles to himself and goes back to his book while Harry gathers his camera supplies and walks out the door. He turns and offers Liam one last smile before letting the door close and walking down the hall. He shakes his head because holy shit that was way too much emotion before noon, but damn it feels good to be reminded that someone cares about him, even when they know how much of an arse he is. 

Harry gets into the elevator and pushes the button, immediately sticking his fingernails in his mouth afterwards. He taps his feet and nibbles on his nails as his impatience, to get outside and start taking pictures, hits him. The elevator opens and he all but sprints out the lobby out onto the street. When he gets outside he takes a deep breath because it finally feels like he can breathe. It doesn’t really make sense because the air in his apartment is undoubtedly cleaner and less likely to give him cancer, but walking outside feels a lot like freedom, and well, he’d die for that. 

He turns to head towards the train and thinks better of it; it’s fall, he should be taking some bloody pictures of colorful leaves. He turns back around and heads up to Central Park, it’s not a long walk. Well, really, nothing is a long walk on Manhattan, but it’s really only a few blocks and he’ll get to breathe the quasi clean air for longer if he avoids the train. He walks slowly, eyes constantly searching the areas around him for something worthy of being taken. Everything seems to move too fast though. The cute moment between the couple, the color clash of the taxi in front of the building, are all gone before Harry can see down the viewfinder. 

The speed that New York moves at is something that Harry is still adjusting too. London is a city, big, bright, beautiful, but there’s this extra rush here that he doesn’t know how to adjust to. Harry is slow and steady, he’s the turtle, he’s molasses; New York is the hare. Everyone he encounters here speaks faster than he ever could; it’s almost like a language barrier, but the only difference is an accent. He prides himself on his approach though, there’s something soothing to him about being able to take his time. Unfortunately, this means he catches images in his brain and that’s the best he can do because they’re over before he can even press his index finger down on the button to capture it.

He’s in the park before his mind stops wondering about the pace of the city. Harry pauses, immediately stops, awed by the hues around him. The natural colors of autumn the oranges, browns, yellows, and greens, merging together to create some of the most beautiful imagery he’s ever seen. New York seems to take the list for everything. It’s the biggest city he’s lived in, it’s the fastest city he’s ever acclimated, and it’s by far the prettiest. Many would probably scoff at the suggestion that the seemingly polluted city would even be able to hold a light to Prague or even Paris, but it does. It’s more than just monuments and ancient structures, it’s the atmosphere and how the city changes you as a person and New York has changed him undoubtedly. 

Harry starts to walk through all the trails in the park, laughing silently to himself at the ratio of grass lots you can actually walk or sit on compared to all the lots you can’t even look at. He stops to snap a picture of what looks like a domestic dispute between two squirrels and captures a genuine image of a love affair between a couple ahead of him on the sidewalk. He smiles softly because the couple just looks so happy and he contemplates going up and asking them if they want the picture but they seem so happy that he just doesn’t want to break the stupor. He walks around the corner and there’s a break in the trees. The buildings of the fashion district tower over the trees creating a stark contrast between the natural and the manmade. It’s quite the illusion really, because central park is as manufactured as the buildings around it, but that isn’t quite the point. The point is that Central Park is beautiful this time of year and photos that capture the skyline and the tree line offer up something exceptional. Harry starts to walk around because he does still feels suffocated by obligation while thousands of miles away, but every step and every click, feels a little bit more like freedom. 

He continues walking with his camera. He loves the camera for multiple reasons really. First being that he doesn’t actually have to interact with anybody because everyone thinks he’s a tourist. The tourists don’t want to ask him directions and New Yorkers don’t want to interact with him at all, so it’s a win win in regards to solitude. 

When he grows tired of Central Park he walks up to the fashion district. He snaps pictures of glittering jewels and clothes he’ll never buy even though he can. It’s hard to walk down Madison Avenue because it feel a lot more like his old life and that’s not what he came to New York for. Three women dressed in clothes twelve times more expensive than he camera and he gags because the perfume reminds him of oppression and wow he’s dramatic, but thinking about the society that revolves around his dad makes Harry nauseous.

He walks so fast he finds himself surprised when he’s made it to the other side of the island. He’s hungry and exhausted from the constant stream of thinking. He finds a station and slowly makes himself down the stairs. He snaps a few pictures of the station attempting to avoid anything too cliche or HONY esque. He’s swipes his card and is walking through the station when someone pummels into him. Harry’s learned to just keep walking, but he hears a mumbled apology as he’s heading in the other direction. Harry thinks he hears an accent, but seems it just another growth in insanity due to the guy he had seen the day prior. 

He blames his hallucinations on exhaustion as its already almost evening and he hasn’t eaten anything but cereal. He hops on the train home, resting his head against the window and hopes that tomorrow he’ll have enough energy to kick around the football. The thought alone makes him smile and he happily walks back to his flat to crash.


	4. Chapter 4

Louis’ Friday night almost killed him. He got home from the hot dog stand after his long walk across the bridge, crashed for a couple of hours and woke up to get ready to go to work at his third job of the day. He dressed, scowled at the fact that he could already hear the music from work and melted into a hug from Zayn. Louis hates the hipster bar, so when he works shifts there it’s twice as exhausting as any other job. 

Friday night began with arriving at work to see more customers he’s ever seen during a shift before, in the first hour. Then, about an hour into the same shift, Niall went drink for drink with multiple clients and ended up getting pissed. Louis wanted to hate him, but the Irish bastard was endearing. Plus, he had the good sense to run to the bathroom to throw up and get all of his vomit in the toilet. He got off exhausted knowing that Saturday is going to be hard to power through.

When he wakes up at 8 a.m., he’s not surprised by how heavy all of his limbs seem to be. It’s his first alarm, his “I’m going to move to a new country and become fit” alarm, which hasn’t actually been used. He’s told himself that he was going to start jogging, but come on, he’s not going to start jogging — especially not regularly. He hopes that maybe one day he will, so he leaves it on, but it really hasn’t happened yet, so he just sits up to turn it off and rolls back over to go to sleep.

He’s never going to be fit enough to be a model anyway. He likes the hot dogs he sells and sleeping way too much to ever grace the side of a building in Manhattan. He’s sitting there trying to fall back into a comfortable position as he starts to laugh hysterically at the idea of him even thinking he could ever be a model. He’s never going to have 9% body fat, his arse holds 11% alone at the moment. He starts to think about the cupcakes at the bakery in Soho that he got gifted from one of the ladies he helped last week and falls asleep happily.

The third time his alarm goes off Louis wakes up. He glances at the clock and leaps up because he was apparently so tired he slept through the second alarm that normally wakes him up for work. He would be mad at himself, but work had been a bitch last night. He had to carry Niall up the stairs and deposit him on the couch before he could even get ready for bed. Louis shakes his head as he walks to the bathroom, honestly a little miffed that he won’t get to do the little performance in the shower that he normally does, but money and an IOU from Niall was more than worth it. 

 

He hops into the shower and smiles, thinking about how last night, although tiring, was maybe a little bit worth it. A shitfaced Niall makes them more tips than a sober one and Zayn had stopped by to say hi and give Louis another hug because “Bro, you work really hard. I never see you anymore. Plus, maybe it’ll get you laid if someone else here thinks you come home to me every night. Have you seen my face?” Zayn had stuck around to have a pint and talk a little because all jokes aside they really haven’t had time for an actual conversation in ages.

 

He rinses his hair as he thinks about how shit timing in his life has been. He and Zayn had fucked around their apartment for a couple of months before deciding that they were both trustworthy. It was one of those nights where the television was on just for some background noise and they sat down with the cheapest beers money could buy and talked about how shit their modern existence has been. They got close and Louis got job after job after job. Now they’re lucky if Louis isn’t too tired to cuddle — or even say goodnight — before falling asleep. For Louis and Zayn, it is a really shitty inconvenience that they grow closer daily and Louis’ job count seems to grow at an increasingly faster rate.

 

Louis turns off the shower and thinks about it for a moment, how they barely have time with each other. He plans to take off work sometime to just go out to the city and show Zayn what he sees when he leaves. Louis may not be special as a composite, but how he sees things and how things make him feel is a special part of him he shares with few people. However, with all the pints Zayn buys just to get a chance at a conversation with his flatmate, he deserves a peek into Louis’ brain.  
He steps out the shower, dries off, and walks back into the large, single, room that makes up their entire apartment. The bedroom-living room-dining room- kitchen combo both lads have actually grown fond of. Affection blossoms in his chest as he looks to the right to see Zayn sprawled all over the bed they share together; it doubles when he catches a glimpse of Niall dangling off the couch like an idiot.

The truth is, it really hasn’t been long, this really isn’t the home that England was supposed to be — he hasn’t spent years here — but he really loves these lads.  
Louis takes a glance at the clock and realizes that he has no time for this affectionate-nostalgia moment that seems to be occurring and starts to get ready a bit quicker. He searches around the room looking for his uniform, both impressed and disgusted by his ability to lose things and make such a mess in the tiniest living area he’s ever occupied. He has to get to midtown Manhattan to open the door for rich old people and accept packages. They tip well there, so the earlier he gets there, the high chance at getting a tip so ridiculously high, he and Zayn can actually buy groceries.

 

He sings, making up for his lost shower time, while prancing around the room gathering all the things he needs. He slowly manages to piece together his uniform, simultaneously putting it on and attempting to sprint around the studio. He almost falls on his face while humming stronger by Kelly Clarkson, finally, he gets to the second chorus and has his entire outfit on his body. He grabs his messenger bag and heads out the door.

 

Louis right on time as he sprints to the bridge. The running around like a mad man got him extra time, so he walks across the bridge at his normal pace, smiling at the street art decorating the walkway. He wishes he had a phone so he could snap a picture or two of the stuff he sees, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s certainly a beggar. When he gets off the bridge he instantly crosses the street to get to the train so he could head up to Central Park. He still has his idiotic friends on his mind while he makes it uptown in one of the cars. Louis can’t stop thinking about how they’re more than he ever had in England and how even if he could trade his happiness here for happiness back there or back “home”, he wouldn’t. 

 

He can just tell that they love him so much and he feels incredibly undeserving. The train jolts to a stop and Louis is shaken from his feelings to realize that he needs to get off the train before he’s actually late to work. He runs out and the cold hits him, he reaches in his bag for his beanie just to discover that he left it at home. He hangs his head low in disappointment and tucks his hands into his coat just into time to run into someone. Louis mutters a sorry and walks away without even lifting his head, but a musky, heavenly, smell finds it’s way to his nose and he stop and turns. It’s instinctive for Louis to scan the crowd and find the source of the scent so strong and overwhelming that it covers the deep stench of trash that lurks in every station in New York City.

 

He sees a very attractive back walking away. Louis’ eyes widen as he rakes his gaze up to the taller lad’s head to see the same green beanie he forgot today resting atop it. He notices that it seems to be smothering a really bountiful head of curls. He wants to call out and tell the other lad that he keeps a group of Europeans at his flat and they drink tea and pints and reminisce about home, but Beanie Boy is long gone and so is the spare time he made by running to the bridge.   
Louis contemplates as he continues to head to work, whether or not it’s his gay that helped him notice that it was a Top Man beanie or his desperation to find good things that remind him of home. He gets to work before he figures it out, but Beanie Boy is still flowing through his brain like a river, filling every empty area with memories of lean backs and great smells. Hell, even the tiny curls that had grabbed Louis’ attention are forming a puddle somewhere near his analytical brain function. He misses the buttons a few buttons clocking in for work and blames it on the fact that he hasn’t gotten laid.

 

Louis takes his position at the door and lets himself daydream about Beanie Boy. He imagines what the muscles on his chest and back would look like beneath his fingers. He sighs as he develops a problem in his pants because it’s more than obvious that it’s been too long. Louis is not the King of casual hookups. In fact, his is a virgin to casual hookups; he finds it hard to think about letting something take that part of you when they don’t care about you at all. He wishes he could conform to society and have casual sex without any second thoughts, but he can’t.

 

There’s so much that is given during sex and he can’t imagine it being fulfilling if the other person isn’t accepting what you’re offering or isn’t giving anything in return. Yet, he thoughts still travel to withering beneath that marvelous frame that he had the luck to run into. He smirks and thinks about how it could be good wanking material, but the smirk fades as he realises that he’d probably have to schedule a break during one of his jobs in order to get himself off. He starts to think about his dating sex rules and how he’ll have sex with someone he just likes after they’ve had a few dates, but his thoughts are interrupted as the lady from 5A pulls up in her luxury taxi.

 

He goes out and opens the door to an overly flirtatious smile that he returns cheekily. He’s Clay Aiken gay, but anything to get more tips because everyone in the complex is richer than he could even imagine being. Louis pretends to be, at the very straight-est, bisexual if it means that he’ll get a tip. He opens the elevator and places all of the bags on the cart that the usher on her level will take care of. When he turns around there’s an $100 bill dangling in his face and words elude him.   
“What?”  
“You’re cute and you always offer me a smile. You also remind me of my husband from when he was younger.”  
Louis cringes as his face flushes because he had deemed her cougar bitch instead of widowed sweetheart. He smiles again as he internally chides himself for being a judgmental wanker.   
“Thank you,” he finally mutters.  
“Anytime sweetheart. Maybe you could come up sometimes?”  
Louis eyebrows shoot up instinctively because honestly, his judgmental side is his default. She laughs, warm and guttural; it reminds Louis of his own laugh. “I’m not some scouting cougar Louis. I’d just like some company every now and again.”

Surprise flickers across his face before he can control it, because he can’t believe she knows his name. No one knows his name. Invisibility makes sure that the name tag on his uniform is about as viewed as the last video he put on youtube (aka it’s seen by himself, Zayn, and Niall, that’s it). Plus today, his name tag is back at the flat sitting right next to the beanie he forgot to grab, so this woman genuinely knows his name. He looks back up at her and the previous smile that he had deemed flirtatious now seems…warm.

She hits the close door button still sending a smile in his direction, before the door closes completely she says loud enough for only him to hear, “you’re not as invisible as you think, love.”

A hint of an American southern accent finds its way to his ears and he’s floored because this woman probably felt as out of place as his does right now and wow, why did he assume that this woman was inviting him up to have sex?   
He slowly walks back to his stool, wondering if maybe he’s been covering his own eyes with the blinds of judgment. Louis hopes that she’ll invite him up again some day because he still can’t get over the fact that he isn’t invisible to everyone in New York City and that this woman knows his name. He often never worries about it, but this is one of those moments where Louis wishes he had a cell phone. There’s just so many people he wants to talk or text to celebrate in this little personal victory of his. He imagines that he’ll get home and just jump into the kitchen mumbling about how someone sees him.

 

When he gets home later absolutely exhausted he does bound into the kitchen excited. Zayn smiles because this much energy means that someone else in the world recognized how awesome his best mate was and told him. Zayn often forgets that part, to tell Louis how fantastic he actually is and how much he means to him. He just hopes the older lad can tell from the pints of beers he buys when he goes to visits and the cuddles he offers up when Louis had time to relax.   
Louis tells the story and Zayn smiles fondly at him. Louis sees that in his eyes Zayn is saying “of course she sees you, everyone sees you you endearing twat,” so instead of finishing his story he just jumps into Zayn’s arms and relaxes a little bit. They take the two second walk from the kitchen to the bed and let themselves tumble into the bed.

 

“Was your day any less shit than it normally was? How was work other than the sweet southern lady you accused of being a whore?”

“I did not accuse her of being a whore!”

“Louis..”

“I just thought, you know, she wanted all this,” Louis says, gesturing to his entire body with a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

“I’m pretty sure even the straightest of people can tell that your lines are a little curved, mate”

“Shut up, Zayn.”

“I think it’s the arse that gives it away. Yeah, definitely the arse,” Zayn confirms while pinching Louis on that particular location. Louis’ response is to push the slender boy off the bed and laugh until his abs are quivering from overuse. Zayn strips of his clothes and Louis does the same. They crawl back into bed and wrap around each other; if Niall would come in and spot them, he wouldn’t even think twice. It’s just what they do, they cuddle, and they love each other endlessly, but it’s not really like that. It’s never really been like that. They appreciate each other, but if they actually tried to be together they would probably end up in prison for beating the shit out of each other.

“You going to the park for a match tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Hopefully those pretentious arseholes are back so I can remind them that Americans are shit at soccer.”

Zayn chuckles and pulls Louis closer to him, “you should probably stop being such a spiteful little shit if you want anyone to like you out here.”

“Overrated. Plus, who the hell am I going to meet kicking around a ball in Central Park.”

“Maybe your next boyfriend.”

Louis laughs so hard he almost pisses his pants because the idea of him having a significant other is both hilarious and implausible. 

“I doubt I’ll find any gays kicking around any footballs in Central Park and I’m not into the gays that do things with the other type of balls in Central Park.” 

“You’re stereotyping yourself, it’s almost incredible how dense you can be sometimes. There’s someone out there that’s just going to catch you off guard and I’m going to sit back and laugh at you, Tommo.”

“I bet you’ll find someone first.”

“I will get us a bigger apartment if I find someone to be with before you do.”

“Shake on it,” Louis demands, untangling their limbs until the action is actually possible. Zayn laughs at his roommate, but indulges him. They return to their previous position and Louis feels his eyelids getting heavy, at least tomorrow he’ll get a break, so with that in mind he falls asleep to thoughts of his hands running down the back of a torso he can’t imagine he’ll ever see again.


	5. Chapter 5

Unknowingly, both boys were running on the same schedule. Louis relishes in his “sleeping in” which was waking up at 10 and Harry just groans and turns over as usual. They both lay on their backs and stare at the ceiling for a little while. One contemplating life, the other questioning how long it would be before one of his jobs calls him in and ruins his day.

When Harry hears Liam stir he finally gets out of bed and gets ready to go to the park. There was a time when Liam would get ready and attend with Harry, but running was Liam’s strong point and that was it. If you put a ball in front of him he seems to lose all of his talent due to the presence of a spherical object.

Harry skips the shower because he’ll take one when he gets back. It never made sense to him to shower before going to get sweaty and dirty. He tosses on his gear and checks himself out in the mirror. He always does it not because he wants to see how he looks, but because it always reminds him to take of his necklaces.

There’s a set around his neck that he never takes off, except for Sundays. He remembers learning that lesson the hard way. He had lost a few of them before coming to the conclusion that he just shouldn’t wear them. Harry still misses his favorite necklace, it was a small silver chain that had a small replica of a 36 mm roll. He had gone out to the field to play and one of the lads he always plays with had slide tackled him and missed completely, so as their limbs tangled, the necklace broke and Harry never saw the charm again.

Harry leaves his room to find Liam at the same table almost in the exact same position, with his neck bent over the same book. He shakes his head and thinks that even he’ll probably be sick of just seeing the book before the semester is over.

“Still Kant?”

Liam sighs and replies,“still can’t.”

“Sorry mate. Want to come down and kick the ball around?”

“Nope. I’ll end up with a broken arm and I’ll still have two hundred pages to read. You take off all your necklaces?”

Harry smiles fondly because he seriously might have the most considerate friend ever and doesn’t really understand how he managed to pull that one off. “Yeah, took them all off.”

“Good. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so melancholy over a necklace before,” Liam replies, but not mockingly, never mockingly.

“Yeah, well you know.”

“I know, Haz. Have fun today. You taking your camera for after the game?”

“No. I took pictures yesterday, so I should be fine,” Harry answers heading towards the door.

“Don’t complain when all you have is instagram shots later!”

Harry peaks back around the door and gives Liam the finger before he walks down the hall chuckling to himself.

———

Louis finally gets out of bed when he hears the key machine from the store downstairs whir to life. Louis goes through his morning routine, including his concert shower performance series. He starts to dry off to Some Nights and Zayn is mumbling from the bed for him to shut the fuck up. Louis just sings louder and tells the younger lad that if he ever got off his lazy arse he might actually be a happier person.

“Something about endorphins,” he mutters as a second thought. Zayn just groans and tosses a pillow over his face refusing to acknowledge his roommate anymore. Zayn is not fond of football, Zayn is not fond of any physical sports.

He deems himself incapable of coordination, but Louis doesn’t trust his judgment. He never has. It’s not that Zayn is a liar; he just has a habit of being too humble. It’s just that he says that he’s no good at football, but he also says he isn’t an intellectual and he can recite half of Shakespeare’s sonnets from memory.

Louis lets his hair dry before tossing on his beanie and gathering up the rest of his items that are strewn all over the apartment floor. He jumps on Zayn for good measure, pulling him into a hug before jumping back up and running out the door.

He loves cuddling Zayn when he’s likely to kill him, the only issue is as he comes back from his match, probably sore, his roommate is going to have planned some sort of retaliating. He flinches as he thinks about it, locking their building door behind him and walking towards the bridge.

He gets to the light at the corner of the street when he hears the familiar bang of Zayn slamming the window open.

“I’m going to kill you when you get back, Tommo! I hope you get hit upside the hide with a ball or a foot or both!”

Louis chuckles and turns around as he yells, “love you too, Zayn. Have a nice afternoon!”

“Fucking arsehole,” is what he hears as he jogs across the street and he almost chokes on his laughter because all the people on the street have turned to stare at him as he runs towards the bridge.

——————————————————————

Central Park in the fall is one of the most overwhelming experiences in the world. There’s bright yellows, warm oranges, and burgundies. In some places throughout the park, trees haven’t caught up to the notice mother nature is sending. There’s lawns filled with the greens of grass and leaves that have yet to change and fall; just like New York unwilling to rest, too stubborn to leave. It’s almost as if everything that grows in New York — or finds itself in New York— can never imagine leaving; even if it’s only to come back in the spring.

The air is crisp, finally. The first few weeks of September feeling more like July and now the end is going out a bit like November. There’s a chill to the wind and everyone is walking around with their hoodies and trench coats (hoodies don’t happen for the wealthy, let’s be serious.) A few tourists stick out in their capris and short sleeves because they didn’t pack for the weather and nothing can convince them to spend $30 on the I love New York shirts that parade themselves in the windows of the very shops like the one Louis works for.

Harry describes Central Park in the fall as melancholy. When Liam asks why he always tells him something about the irony of nature being the most beautiful right before it dies. How the yellows incite an optimism that maybe shouldn’t be present in New York, especially not in New York right before the cold. Fall is still his favorite though; because Harry is nothing but a hypocrite and it’s always the things that make him feel the saddest that hold the most importance.

Louis pays the same amount of attention to the colors of the leaves as he does the colors of his clothes whenever he attempts to do laundry (last time his yellow t-shirt for work came out this weird color blue because it turns out your black khakis don’t wash well with lighter hues). He’s too busy sprinting to the field to care about the rainbow of colors falling around him as they dive from their platforms.

The lads both play in the open fields. Harry plays a bit further east than Louis does and often has no problem keeping a foot on the ball. However, Louis and his squad stay further down the lawn because Louis is reckless and he really doesn’t want to hit another New Yorker with a football. He jogs to his position on the field, vaguely noticing that team setting up across the way. Louis isn’t big on paying attention; there’s just no time to focus on anything but what’s relevant to his life.

Harry misses Louis pass for an entirely different reason. He’s sitting on the floor tying up his cleats and chatting with a couple of new strangers who decided to pass by and join in. They get up and start kicking around the ball; warming up. Louis swings his legs around, does a little stretch he believes he saw someone do before a match, and joins into the game no problem (they don’t wait for him anymore because he’s a flake, but he understands).

Neither of them notice as the scrimmages seem to make their way towards each other. It happens frequently, one of the balls ends up shooting to the other side and then there’s two in play and no one knows what’s happening until someone screams about getting their equipment back so they can continue their game. Typically Harry sprawls out on the ground to catch some air and well, Louis is flaky.

However with both present and the way that their interactions have seem to solidify that they’re meant to gravitate towards, a problem was bound to happen. There’s no way two lads from the UK can see each other twice on the subway, remember the other so vividly, and then would be able to leave the same field without some sort of collision, figurative or literal. This time, the first time, it’s certainly literal. The ball is passed by some broker in his midlife crisis to Louis who decides to shoot at the non-existent goal; every muscle is his leg ripples as his foot collides with the ball and he’s back to running towards it before he realizes that maybe that was a little too much. He stops running and starts to speed walk as he watches, in what feels like slow motion, as the ball collides with a face, a really attractive face.

He gets over his immediate infatuation as the face in question falls out of his vision because the person it belongs to is flat on his back.

“Bloody hell,” Harry groans, covering the part of his face the ball hit with his hand. Louis tries not to notice how one hand covers the entire red mark, but fails, staring openly at the lad who thankfully still has his eyes clothes.

“Dude, you alright? Tommy boy here is a bit reckless.” Louis turns to glare at his offensive teammate before realizing that he should have asked if he was alright ages ago.

“Shit, I’m dense. I’m sorry, mate. Are you okay,” Louis asks, face flushing with embarrassment because he’s acting like a school girl.

“Yeah. M’good. Just going to lay here for a while then.”

One of the strangers from Harry’s side came over to check up on him and then asked if they wanted to join together to play because with Harry out and Louis distracted, they finally had the perfect number of players to form a proper match.

Harry sits up and walks over to the other side of the field to get out the way. Louis follows because if he gets near the ball again he’s probably going to kick it at the pompous twat who called him Tommy. It’s when Louis is looking back at the match that’s already starting up again that Harry gets a view of his profile and holy shit.

He doesn’t know what the feeling is because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like butterflies or even eagles or fucking flamingos in his stomach. It feels like he just ran into a brick wall going 100 (or maybe like a football going 50 collided with his face) and now that his vision isn’t blurry he can see that this is his demon. This is the very thing that’s been haunting his sleep and invading his day dreams and suddenly his fingers won’t stop fidgeting and his nails look too long and wow what the fuck is he supposed to say?

Oh hey, I’m glad you hit me in the face because I saw you once, in that very beanie, and you may have turned my world inside out and upside down and I just don’t know what the fuck you’re supposed to be in my life for, but shit I know you’re supposed to be here.

He looks absolutely paralyzed and Louis turns around and the most apologetic look Harry has ever seen gracing a face.

“M’really sorry, mate”

Harry laughs at the sincerity, “it’s alright. It’s not the hardest I’ve been hit and it probably won’t be the last I get hit either.”

Louis finds himself staring because, of course, the cheeky bastard would have dimples and a perfect smile. He bites his own lip remembering his less than stellar dental record, but forgets to remove his gaze.

“Do I have a bump on my head?” Harry asks because Louis is looking at him like there’s a bump or something and if there isn’t one, Harry is curious if all the people he’s ever encountered lied to him about his being attractive.

“No!” Louis interjects, then realizing he’s screaming continues softer, “No, you don’t sorry mate.”

Harry smiles again and lets a smug look make home on his face because red forehead and all, the lad from the train was staring at his face. Louis sighs and sits down next to Harry, burying his face in his hands in an effort to hide the bright red blush he can feel the heat from.

Louis sits back and thanks whoever the hell is responsible for the words that come out of his mouth because sorry mate almost didn’t happen and wow I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen eyes like yours before and I think I would like to wake up to those bright green eyes every morning for the rest of my life, almost did. Something tells him that might have been a little bit alarming (granted that something was wrong, but what he doesn’t know, well, it might actually make his life a little but more difficult.).

Harry stands to go stretch because going from 60 to 0 means tight calves and sore thighs and he likes being able to sit down on the train without grimacing like he had great sex the night before. The only time he ever wants to grimace sitting down is well, if he does actually have great sex the night before. Although he never stops to think about what he might actually enjoy and just falls into the habit of just following his bullshit train of thought when he knows absolutely nothing about such things.

He walks away from Louis to go get his water without saying anything about his return. Louis notices nothing but how the curls peaking from under the beanie look incredibly familiar and how torsos that long are certainly few and far between. The flush he’s been trying to get rid of just grows hotter as his thoughts from his shift at work the day prior return. He readjusts himself on the bench and stares at the old man walking his poodle until his semi disappears.

He taps his feet because he knows, that this isn’t lust, not really. What’s really going on here with Beanie Boy is a little beyond one night stands and senseless fucking. Christ, if he’s honest with himself, he knows it’s different because his first thought about the wanker was about how he wanted to wake up to his green eyes every morning and what a fucking cliche that is. He groans and slides down until he can rest his head on the back of the bench.

He’s interrupted when Harry calls out to him while walking back to his spot. “I’m going to assume by the face that you gave that lovely man back there, that your name has little, or nothing, to do with Tommy.”

“I want to punch him in the fucking face; I think your best bet is to go with nothing to do with Tommy.”

“So not Tommy, what’s your name?”

“Louis.”

“Like spelled french and pronounced Loueh or spelled with the e?”

“French.”

“Cool.”

“It’s a name.”

“Well mine is just Harry, no fancy spellings or pronunciations so let me have my little victories, “ Harry mutters as he hands Louis one of the extra bottles of water he always brings with him.

“Fine, I guess you can have your excitement just keep it over there.”

Harry mutters something unintelligible and Louis smirks because he’s pretty sure it was something along the lines of cheeky bastard and that’s a label he’ll wear proudly. Harry talks and Louis talks and the match in front of them ends before they even have a break in conversation.

Louis is suddenly questioning whether or not Harry would have responded to his wake up thoughts in the manner he thought he would. First, Harry seems to lack a negative reaction to anything. He’s starting to remind Louis of a puppy. One that you whisper promises to as you bring him home, but the next day as you leave for work and lock him in the cage you realize that maybe you’re actually shit. The worst part being that when you get back home and let him out, he’s still so genuinely excited to see you your heart bursts.

Because that’s the worst kind of love, the unconditional kind that doesn’t care how long you go without nurturing it and Harry embodies that.

Louis worries about being presumptuous, but he notices how Harry’s gaze seems to trail from his eyes to his mouth and back up. He also knows that Harry is noticing the same thing, but at least for the moment, can’t bring himself to care. Harry keeps listening to all the shit that Louis is spewing and the worst part is that he looks sincerely interested and he is sincerely interested and Louis has no idea what to do with that.

If Harry keeps paying attention like Louis is actually saying something important, Louis might begin to believe him and that’s a problem.

Harry’s cheeks are starting to hurt because he’s been smiling this whole time. Louis is something spectacular and he wants to take him home and keep him forever. He laughs, genuinely, because Louis is doing this sarcastic self-deprecating thing and it’s perfect. Harry wants to hear him talk forever and that thought makes his smile falter because how is he going to get this guy to talk to him again?

“You alright?”

“That’s becoming a staple in our conversation.”

“You’re cheeky, Haz, but no shit, it’s been a staple; I hit you in the face with a ball.”

Harry’s face flushes because his mum, sister, and Liam are the only people who have nicknames for him and wow, Haz sounds really good coming out of Louis’ mouth.

Louis stares as Harry catches the side of his finger in his mouth and realizes that the younger lad is nervous about something. Then he steels as he puts two and two together and comes to the conclusion that Harry is about to ask for this to leave the park and holy shit. He still puts on his brave face though, grateful that palms don’t rain sweat or he’d have a puddle on his shorts.

“So, what’s on your mind, Haz?”

Harry bows his head and bites his lip, nerves building up to add to that nausea that never really left once he recognized Louis.

“Well, urm.”

Louis smiles because it’s been a long time since anyone was affected by him and for it to be so earnest, it’s almost overwhelming. He also smiles because it’s the only thing preventing him from grimacing at the fact that he cannot stop thinking about how the lips, circling around that finger, would feel slotted against his.

“You’ve been sarcastic this whole time. Where did all that cheek go?”

“Ijustwantedtoknowifmaybeyouwouldwanttogotothebartogether,” Harry mumbles breathlessly. He’s mixed between wanting Louis to understand so he doesn’t have to repeat it again and wanting him to not understand so he can just say never mind and walk back to his apartment in defeat.

Louis stares blankly back at Harry surprised when the younger lad doesn’t break his gaze. The truth is Louis is terrified. Absolutely, completely, and thoroughly afraid of something — anything — like love because again, this isn’t a fuck. He knows that if he takes Harry home he’ll probably get three more jobs and find a way to stay home with him and give him the best and fuck that’s awful. Harry is the kind of person that makes him want to be better and Louis, Louis knows that he can’t be better.

“Harry.”

“That sounds a bit like you’re about to say it’s not you it’s me, but I rather you not. If you it’s you and not me then go anyway because I doubt we see the same person.”

“I,”

“Bar?”

“Harry.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Harry, I work.”

“You have to be off sometime, Louis.”

“I, well, I work at a bar.”

“Well, do you want me to come by during one of your shifts then?”

“I won’t be able to stop just to talk to you.”

“I doubt they can make you work all night.”

Louis scoffs at this and continues, “you’ve obviously never worked in Brooklyn.”

Harry saves his confessions on never really having worked ever for later and just stares at Louis until he replies again.

“I work in Williamsburg, you willing to come over there?”

“Something tells me you know the answer to that.”

“First you mumble, then you’re an arse; I don’t understand.”

“I’m complex.”

“Something tells me that’s just scratching the surface.”

“Something tells me you can relate,” Harry retorts.

Louis smiles then, not one of humor or joy, but one of disbelief because “connecting” with someone is for shitty films at the cinema and episodes of Doctor Who and not for real life in the middle of Manhattan.

“How do you feel about live music, Harry?”

“I don’t really know. Depends.”

“Great, I work Tuesday. It’s the first street on the left when you walk over the bridge. It’s called The Post Office and I promise you’ll have an opinion on live music come Wednesday morning,” Louis says as he stands up.

“See you Tuesday, then.”

“See you Tuesday. Sorry about your face.”

“Yeah, sorry about yours too,”Harry jokes, taking delight in the crinkles that appear next to Louis’ eyes as he lets out a hearty laugh.

“You’re good, I”ll give you that Harry. By the way, you got a last name?”

“Styles.”

Louis smiles because that’s a fitting name and decides what the hell and casually yells back as he walks away, “Tomlinson!”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry walks (sprints) home with a jump in his step because holy shit what was that? He isn’t experienced with anything outside of how to make his father hate him in 18 years or less, but something about his encounter with Louis just made his heart race and blood stir and all that over the top Ryan Gosling movie type stuff.

He gets home a lot faster than he normally does just because his excitement is propelling him forward. He needs to get home to tell Liam because if he doesn’t he’s going to end up hugging someone on the street and getting arrested for sexual harassment or punched in the face in the true New York fashion.

He slams through the door and Liam jumps out of his chair.

“OHMYGOD!” Liam yells, startled by the sudden interruption. Upon sight of Harry his shoulders relax and he runs a palm over his face. “Oh. It’s you. Are you out of your mind?!”

“Liam, I met someone.”

“I hope it was Obama because I almost punched you in the face and to be honest I’m still quite tempted to.”

“His name is Louis”

Liam glares at the younger boy, “so not the President.”

“No.”

“You’re an arse. I’m trying to study, why would you barge through the door like that?”

“Liam, you’re being inconsiderate. I’m genuinely excited here,” Harry whines.

Liam pulls a face and walks back to the table resting a hand on it. “Brilliant.I’m being inconsiderate.”

“LIAMMM”

“Harry.”

“Liam, I think this is along the lines of something stupid, like destiny or fate or true love or soulmates.”

Liam sighs because discussions like these with Harry typically proceed this way for most people. It must be the tone of his voice when he gets to whining that makes people listen.

“What is it then? Get on with it.”

“I met someone.”

“You met someone?”

“Yes Liam, I met someone.”

“Who?”

“His name is Louis.”

“How?”

“He hit me in the head with the ball.”

“Why?”

“He’s the overzealous type.”

“Do you even know if he’s gay?”

Harry stills, excitement dying a little bit as he realizes he hadn’t even asked; he had just assumed.

“Well, he agreed to go to the bar with me.”

Liam smiles affectionately, “yeah? Well something tells me it wasn’t as simple as just extending an invitation.”

“Liam, stop giving me such a hard time and just be happy for me.”

“I never said I wasn’t happy for you! You just have this thing where you seem creepily obsessed with this lad you just met.”

“Hey! I’m not obsessed with the lad.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

“Liam! You don’t even know him!”

“And you do?”

“I know a bit?”

“You know nothing”

“But I want to. I want to know everything and that’s the bloody point!”

Liam shakes his head and sits back down. Harry always does this. Once people get under his skin he goes on and on about them without really thinking if he knows them or if he just knows about them. More importantly, Liam never knows if Harry is seeing the truth or what he wants to see.

“What is it about him then?”

“Li, his eyes, they’re just so blue and his smile and his hair and the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs and just, God. And It’s like for once I’m scared to take a picture of something beautiful because I don’t feel like it’ll be enough. Well, that and snapping a picture of him with my phone probably would have made him run away from me even faster.”

Liam chuckles and replies, “bro, you sound like Aladdin.”

“And he’s funny and just um,” Harry gestures wildly for a moment circulating the air with his hands is going to make the word come to him faster. “Magnetic! Yeah. He’s magnetic and I must be his polar opposite because I’m so drawn to him and wait, did you just compare me to a disney character?”

“You know that part after they leave the cave where he’s all like ‘her eyes and her smile and that hair’ or whatever to the Genie while he looks like he’s going to fall over or something?”

Harry stares at Liam dumbly for a few moments before a smirk starts to form on his face. “I don’t know whether or not to be amused by you or embarrassed for you.”

“Harry, you just made a not joke science metaphor about your love life, so I’d go with amused. Plus, the ladies love a man well versed in Disney.”

“Yes, but women don’t like guys who use the phrase ‘the ladies,’” Harry says dramatically making air quotes with his fingers. “I thought you were more into Prince Charming than Cinderella anyway.”

“I hate you.”

They both smile because it’s not true. It could be though. Harry just knows it’s not. He and Liam never had the discussion about sexual interests. Neither of them really cares about who turns who on or what or where. It isn’t important. Harry just assumes from the lack of women in Liam’s life (not that there’s ever been a shortage of interested women, it’s obviously the other way around) and Liam knows what Harry is into, which is, well, everything.

“I just haven’t met the right person,” Liam confesses meek and shy.

“Story of my life, Li.”

“Yeah, but people want you.”

“People want you too.”

“Just not the right ones.”

“Case and point my friend”

“You need to stop using law idioms.”

“I’m an intellectual, I can use all the idioms I want to.”

“Yep, I definitely hate you.”

Harry smiles and settles down on the table next to Liam. He breaks out the books from the bag he left strewn over the chair and starts to study. He finds that it’s a bit more difficult than he thought it would be because all the possibilities for Tuesday are on repeat in his head and the nausea has returned.

He’s so fucked.

————————————————————

Louis is not excited. Nope. He’s so not excited that Harry’s name isn’t sitting on the tip of his tongue like a candy he wants to savor forever.

Totally not excited.

Louis honestly walks home with a massive smile plastered on his face. Beanie boy is Harry and Beanie boy is taken with him. It’s a surprising turn of events in his life. Louis doesn’t meet people who want to see him again.

Except, apparently he does.

He walks back across the bridge shaking his head at the events of the day. It figures that Harry would be absolutely charming and absolutely stunning. He is gorgeous, cheeky and did Louis already say fit? Because he really wants to buy a poster of the lad and put it up in his flat. He’s laughing to himself at this point, walking towards the left side of the walkway and thinking about how absolutely insane he’s gone.

When he gets to the bottom of the walkway he chooses to cut through the park instead of walking around it and jumps out of his skin when he sees a shadow to his right.

“You never walk around the park Lou, how do you manage to be scared every time I’m sitting here waiting for you?”

“My mind travels to other places, Zayn. As much as I adore you, you’re unfortunately not the only thing on my mind.”

“That hurts my heart, but you can fix it if you grab a slice with me.”

“Oh! Are we going to Mezza Luna?”

“Yeah, my treat.”

“You’re a fucking champion, mate,” Louis cheers, throwing his arms around Zayn before grabbing his hand and practically sprinting to the pizzeria.

They sit down and order a large pie laughing at the stares they still get when they open their mouths to talk. They get cheese pizza and Zayn pays, both of them glad that Brooklyn is still dirt cheap dispute all the people from Manhattan moving in.

The guy calls them over when their pizza is done. They sit down at a table and open the box to let the cheese cool so they don’t burn their mouths off.

“How was your match today?” Zayn asks jabbing the cheese with his finger willing it to hurry up and cool down.

“It was good.”

“Just good?”

“I mean it was a match not a free trip to Hawaii.”

“Something totally happened and you’re trying to downplay it so I don’t ask. I’m gonna ask, what happened?”

“Nothing!”

Zayn raises one eyebrow accusingly, “something happened and I deserve to know.”

“Zayn!”

“Doth protest too much my friend.”

“Who even says doth anymore?”

“Irrelevant, now tell me what happened before I eat this pizza by myself.”

Zayn reaches for the hot peppers knowing Louis won’t eat anything with the pepper flakes on it.

“Fine! I might have hit this guy in the face with a ball. And he might have been cute. And I may have told him he can stop by the bar Tuesday.”

Zayn frowns because there’s something nagging in the back of his head that suggests that he has something to give Louis shit for, but he just can’t remember what.

“So, you hit him in the face with the ball and he didn’t have the good sense to run in the opposite direction?”

“To be quite fair, the closer to me he was, the safer he probably was.”

“Touche.”

“You like him.”

Louis lets his indignant smirk settle on his face, butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the truth of the words. “I don’t know him Zayn. How can I like him?”

“You like him and I can tell Louis. Don’t you lie to me!”

“Zayn, I don’t know him!”

“Do you know how often you say your matches are good. Lou? No? Let me tell you. Never. You never say that you went out and played football and it was good. You go ‘eh’ and flop down on the bed like you’re about to die. You don’t say ‘good’ so I know it’s not a mere coincidence that you suddenly had a good match and you happened to meet some lad.”

“You working with mere technicalities.”

“Shut up and stop using my words,” Zayn jokes, stuffing a large piece of pizza into his mouth. “You’re excited that this guy was pushy enough to get you to let him come. Which means I get to be excited to meet him because he must be one hell of a lad.”

“I hate you so much,” Louis mumbles out between chews.

Zayn snorts, almost choking on his pizza and retorts, “I bought you pizza; you aren’t entitled to hatred.”

Louis chews and Zayn cracks the occasional joke and before they know it, all the food is gone and they’re making their way home.

Zayn unlocks the door and bounds up the stairs, mocking Louis in front of their door for his slow ascension up the stairs. When Louis gets to the top he punches Zayn in the arm and heads straight for the shower. When he gets out he puts on his green pajama pants and crawls into bed next to Zayn.

“I think you owe me money.”

Louis sits up, eyes wide and face indignant. “You said you were buying the pizza!”

Zayn peers at Louis’ face and laughs so hard that he tumbles onto the floor.

“Your face! You’d think I’d asked you to cut off your own dick or have sex with a girl!”

“You’re a twat.”

“No, you owe me money because I’m pretty sure I said something along the lines that I was going to bet you that you would meet someone and you’d have to pay me money.”

“I never agreed to that. I might not have even heard it. Plus, as of right now, he might never be a someone. He might always be a no one.”

Zayn sighs with a small defeated smile forming on his lips because it’s so Louis that he’s already planning for this guy to mean nothing to him. This is the part of their conversation where Louis goes into his head and thinks about everything that went wrong and Zayn just sits there and wonders what exactly happened to Louis Tomlinson before he strolled into Brooklyn. He never asks though because he already knows that Louis makes a habit of locking out the people who try and open the door too wide, so he accepts that the best he can do is offer him a cuddle and drift off to sleep.

———————-

Harry walks slowly off the bridge. He’s grateful that he decided to walk off some of the nerves seem to burn off with the calories. He walks through a small concrete park and playground. Harry sits down on one of the swings for a moment to burn some of the extra time he has (he left an hour early because traffic and taxis and you never know what happens. It’s totally not enthusiasm, okay?). He admires the playground, taking out his phone to get a shot of the Williamsburg Bridge behind the slide.

Everything here screams playful and fun and reminds him of the bartender who has failed to leave his mind since Sunday. He wishes Louis was there with him and he creeps himself out because he thinks about this lad like he’s married to him. Harry is all about romance, but wanting someone so much that isn’t even his freaks him out.

He’s willing to admit that his views on love are skewed, at best. He isn’t going to see a therapist, but he knows that he’s put a heavy reliance on love in hopes that it’ll fill in the blanks left over from how he was raised. He’s affectionate and he is loving, but none of the relationships he has allowed him to show this. Harry is split, not whole, the infamous broken. He’s spread thin —a different person with everyone he knows — he’s just hoping and waiting for the person who will just let him be Harry.

Just Harry.

Harry who likes hugs. Harry who misses warmth and touching people.

Harry who has someone who understands his quirks and appreciates his love.

Mostly, he wants someone who would love him back with equal fervor. Equal love.

He looks down at his watch and notices that it’s five till seven so he decides to head over; a couple of minutes early seems less desperate than showing up at 6:30. When he rounds the corner he hears the music and catches the sign floating over the sidewalk. The nerves he thought he burned off appear the moment he steps through the door. The bar surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday, but he spots Louis it instantly. He isn’t sure whether or not he should be deflated by the fact that Louis isn’t staring at the door waiting for him, but he revels in the time he gets to watch him in one of his elements.

Little does Harry know, Louis sees him the moment he walks in the door. He takes a quick glance at the unreasonably handsome lad and returns to his work before their eyes can connect. Louis feels when Harry’s gaze falls on him. And a blush grows on his cheeks as he pours another gin and tonic. He smiles to himself as he hears hairy worked his way through the crowd offering an occasional apology. Louis looks up and the smile he sees stuns him into a frozen state. The dimples that line the side of Harry’s face are the kind that make you want to do anything for him. Louis really wants to do things for Harry, to Harry, but that’s not the important part. This thought process reminds him to settle down because if there was one person he didn’t manage to convince that it wasn’t a date, it’s himself. Well, and Zayn —anyone who knows him really.

He catches the smile on Harry’s face turn into a shy tight line as he’s pouring his 20th gin and tonic. Louis feels his hands clam up as the boy gets closer to the bar and has to wipe them on his pants to get rid of the moisture. When he looks up from the floor his eyes connect with Harry’s and he lets out a gasp that make the aforementioned dimples on Harry’s face appear again with a bright smile.

“I can’t tell if you’re happy to see me or if you want to kill me.”

“Order gin and tonic and I’ll kill you.”

“So you’re happy to see me!” Harry says cheekily. When Louis raises a brow he gives an order. “I’ll just take a Corona.”

Louis glares at him and grabs a Corona from behind him, popping the top off before placing it on the counter.

Harry’s smile becomes less smug and more endearing; Louis walks away and takes another order to avoid blushing. Harry watches pleased with the opportunity to just take in everything that is Louis when he’s not on a football field. He really knows nothing about him so he’s grateful that he gets the opportunity to even just have a glimpse into his life. Harry shakes his head at the creepy nature of his own thoughts, for the second time that night, and takes a sip of his beer..

Unfortunately (for the both of them although Louis will never admit it), the crowd grows. The live music plays and Harry sings along to the covers getting stares from everyone around him because you don’t sound like that and not sing. Except you do, if you’re Harry because singing is for the shower and bars when you’re half drunk, but it’s not what he wants to do. He says that to the interesting girl with the strong Brooklyn accent who asks why he doesn’t spend every moment of his life on a stage; Louis hears and sighs. He really could have an album or two on repeat for the rest of his life if it was Harry singing.

He frowns immediately afterwards though, because Harry seems so sure of what he wants to do (which Louis has no idea what that is exactly) and he’s still working behind a bar and at a coffee shop and practically a gay strip club. Harry is younger than him and he has his life together, but Louis doesn’t have time to mull it over as there’s another patron flagging him down for a jack and coke. He watches Harry out the side of his eye as he works, actually surprised at his genuine sadness over not being able to have a conversation with him.

Harry is perfect, really. He socializes with everyone who comes up, but never flirting, never accepting any numbers. Louis smiles when he hears Harry say that he’s already got his eye on someone and almost prances over to give the lad a hug when he points the girl in the direction of the guy who has been staring at her since she walked through the door. Louis is learning a lot just by peeking over at Harry while going through the motions of pouring alcohol and mixing drinks. The problem is that he really likes what he sees and that can’t work, that never works, because things, more specifically relationships, that involve him never make it out alive or intact.

Louis turns around to grab another bottle off the mirror when he sees Harry flagging him down in the reflection. He makes his way over to him grabbing a glass to make his next drink when he looks up to see a mischievous smile forming. He doesn’t have the time to react before Harry leans over the bar.

“So, I’m going to start buying you drinks, and you’re going to go drink for drink with me.”

Louis opens his mouth to lie about how he’s not allowed to drink on the job, but his boss is standing behind him. One of the first things the man said to him was that he should drink with the new clients, make them come back, and he knows Harry’s never been here before. He lets out a small whimper that goes unheard due to the loud music, and brings out a matching glass.

“So what’ll it be then?”

“Make me your favorite.”

Louis complies, grabbing a bottle of greyhound vodka and the pink grapefruit juice out of their mini fridge. He mixes the drinks together before putting everything away and standing back in front of Harry with his eyebrows raised.

“Shall we?”

Harry smirks and picks up his glass, raising it in a silent salute to Louis. Louis blushes because Harry’s gaze travels over him like his toast is to every single part of his body. He squirms a little and raises his own glass, lust making it to his eyes before he puts the glass to his mouth and drinks the whole thing in one swift motion. He ignores Harry’s gaze when he slams his glass on the counter because he can feel the heat radiating off his body from across the bar and he already wants to take him next door to his apartment and snog him senseless.

“So is pink your favorite color or do you just like the taste of that drink,” Harry teases questioningly.

“My favorite color is green thank you very much and you can’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy that drink.”

“I did enjoy it, but I don’t know if it’s because you made it or because it was good.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, tips get you everywhere,” Louis responds and smiles as Harry’s laughter carries over all the other sounds around him.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Louis notes at the end of the night that Harry wasn’t kidding. Harry pays his tab and leaves a 50 dollar tip for Louis in one solid bill on the bar. Louis’ boss claps him on the back and Niall who strolled in two hours late for his shift waggles his eyebrows and laughs. He starts to clean up, wiping down the bar and putting away glasses, but his boss taps him on the shoulder and points to Harry outside.

He wants to make a joke about practically being prostituted out, but his boss doesn’t normally do that, which makes him even more uncomfortable. If his boss can tell that taking Harry home is only one of the things he wants to do with him, what else will everybody see? What else will Harry see? Regardless, he grabs his coat off the hanger and walks out the door to greet Harry in front of the bar.

“You’re not getting in trouble for leaving early are you?”

“No, you left a pretty large tip. I’m sure my boss thinks that he just let me off to my second job of the night and that you’re about to get a blowjob on a swing set.”

Harry chokes on air, stopping to catch his breath before looking up to see Louis’ eyes glistening with humor. “You just made a joke about being a prostitute.”

“You need to get out more if it only takes the mention of a playground blowjob to make you choke, sunshine.”

“It takes more than a playground blowjob to make me choke,” Harry replies, suggestion dripping in every letter. Louis’ steps falter, but he plays it off walking beside Harry towards the bridge.

“I don’t know if you took the train here or if you walked the bridge, but if you want I’ll walk back over with you.”

“Then you’ll have to walk over by yourself,” Harry says, brows furrowed in concern.

“I’m a big boy; I normally walk this time whenever I get out of work anyway. I’m typically coming from Manhattan on Tuesday nights.”

“Where do you work at this late?”

“Souvenir shop near time square. It’s practically 24 hours.”

Harry shakes his head, awed by the fact that Louis managed to work so many jobs and still be, well, like Louis. Boundless, energetic, and exceptionally attractive. Harry would assume by now that all the working would have made his face haggard and his hands rough, but those assumptions are definitely proved wrong as the warm light hits Louis on the face and their hands manage to graze as they turn on to the pedestrian walkway.

“Tell me about yourself Louis,” Harry whispers, as if the softer his voice is the more inclined Louis will be to indulge him. The older lad chuckles softly because he knows between the earnest and wide green eyes and the drinks he had, that he’s more than willing to share and that this walk is going to be longer than he expected.


	7. Chapter 7

Louis shudders, the air feeling a little bit colder than it did the moment before Harry’s intrusion. Louis shakes his head because maybe it’s not really an intrusion; he just doesn’t like people knowing things. Honesty makes him cold, chills him to the bone because of the harsh realities and memories that come from telling the truth. He’s always been wary of sharing too much. He knows that people leave and the less they know as they walk out, the more protected he is.

There’s still something about him that wants to share something with Harry, so he starts small, simple. Harry asked about him, but he didn’t ask his life story, so he can just share the asinine facts he stores away for moments like this. When people want to “know” him. He thinks for a moment and when he’s sure he has enough bullshit to last the walk across the bridge he returns the smile to his face.

“Well, I’m 21. I’m from England as I’m sure you’ve figured out already and I work at the post office as you saw and a few other places.”

“Birthday?”

Louis sighs and replies, “Christmas eve.”

Harry laughs at Louis’ exasperation, but continues. “Where’s home in England?”

“Doncaster.”

Louis laughs this time as Harry’s eyes furrow as he attempts to remember the geographic location of his small hometown. Harry offers a dimpled smirk in return and gets back to what feels like an interrogation. Louis instinctively turns around to look down the wlkway because despite the fact that hipsters have taken over Brooklyn is still kind of scary. Harry turns around quickly, but still asks his questions.

“Where else do you work other than the bar?”

“My papers are good,” Louis jokes, starting to get uncomfortable. “You know, just in case you’re an immigration agent.”

Harry chuckles again, but something about it is knowing and it’s unsettling because Louis just met him last Sunday and he can’t possibly know anything about the older lad. Louis likens himself to a puzzle, a big one, like a 5,000 piece puzzle of one of those Pollock swirly paintings. 

Harry bumps his shoulder with a shy smile and the warmth shocks Louis out of his reverie. The heat seems to travel through every part of his body. Louis thinks that Harry must be on top of him, but when he raises his gaze Harry is back over on the other side, giving Louis his space.

“That was an apology by the way,” Harry mutters, eyes never leaving the pavement. “I don’t mean to interview you or whatever; I’m just curious. There’s no hidden intent here.”  
Louis can’t help the grimace that settles on his face, “you’d be the first,”

“You sound paranoid. One of those judge one judge all types,” Harry whispers, as if saying it softly takes the bite out of the words.

“You know, you’re probably not the first person who has wanted to say that to me, but you’re most certainly the first person to say it. But no, not paranoid, just speaking from experience. I appreciate the honesty though.”

“I’m the tell it as I see it type. There’s too much bullshit in the world already for me to even attempt to add to it. I expect the same treatment — want the same treatment.”

“Well you’re nosey,” Louis chides, half jokingly, and is impressed when he sees the smirk drop off Harry’s face for what feels like the first time that night. “However, you’re cute and seem sincere, so I don’t mind as much.”

“Great! In that case, why’d you come to New York?”

Louis shoots Harry a glare, irritated by how quickly the smirk finds its way back to his face.  
“First, tell me why you’re here. You already have my birthday and place of origin. I’m two steps away from filling out all the necessary information for a government form. Your turn.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, catching Louis’ surprised look out the corner of his eye. “I go to Colombia. I’m studying economics even though I don’t want to. My father is a domineering prick, so I came to New York to get away from him.”

“What’s wrong with your dad?”

“Father,” Harry corrects instinctively.

“Pardon?”

“He’s my father; he’s not my dad. He’s nothing more than a sperm donor so to say.”

Louis flinches at the cold words, “that bad?”

“Yeah.”

“So like, he wasn’t in your life?”

“No, I guess you could say he was; he just wasn’t invested. Work over all.”

“Is that why..”

“I”m taking economics? Yeah. My life still isn’t my own really.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think I’m a better person because of his absence.”

“Do you really?” Louis questions, noticing Harry’s falter. When he looks up a smile has replaced the frown and the furrowed brow from moments before has relaxed. Louis sighs because he that that he had him for once, there was something vulnerable there. He wants the upper hand, but this younger lad keeps taking the lead.

Harry cackles at the look of confusion on Louis’ face, but say nothing about what could have possibly put it there. “I guess you’ll have to find out and let me know if I’m better off then.

“I guess your father is a charmer,” Louis says, noting how endearing everything about Harry is.

“Nope. The charm comes from the dimples which comes from my mum, so it’s all her.”

Louis wants to look up and doesn’t want to look up at the same time. He can hear the smile and the love in Harry’s voice and he knows that it must be a sight to behold, but if he looks up he’ll mutter something stupid about how much he misses his family, so he just keeps staring at his feet. Hypnotizing himself with his placement of one foot in front of the other, so he doesn’t share too much. 

“She must be lovely,” he manages to muster.

“She’s perfect,” Harry replies without a second thought. “Now about you.”

It sounds like he’s begging and that does make Louis smile again (which he’s incredibly unimpressed with. He’s pretty sure he’s smiled more in the last hour than in the last year.) However, instead of replying, Louis nods his head forward and watches as Harry’s smile drops and his brow furrows. 

“I didn’t know I walked that fast,” Harry complains, sincerely irritated by the lack of bridge in front of him. He doesn’t even know how long it took them to walk into Manhattan, but he wants to do it 300 more times with Louis right next to him. “Next time then?”

Louis wants to say no and ask him what on earth makes him think that he gets a next time, but the glare of the lights from the street are reflecting in his eyes and shadowing his jawline on his neck and Louis can’t say no because he’s interested. 

Louis looks up and meets his eye (great he has to look up) and offers him a dazzling smile that brings Harry’s heart into his throat.

“Alright mate,” Louis finally replies and Harry lets go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Louis stops at the crosswalk watching as the cars go by, which is really watching Harry’s face out of the corner of his eye because the younger lad has a stupid smile plastered on still. 

Harry’s still thinking about how Louis managed to look like he was equally as excited as he himself was, but he doesn’t say anything because it’s like he’s working out the puzzle that is Louis Tomlinson. He figures the more he lets on that he knows how Louis works, the faster the older male will run and as fun as a chase is, Harry doesn’t want to run the risk of losing, so instead he opts for the affection he wants.

“You a hugger?”

Louis smiles to himself, looking away from Harry until he can get it off his face. He puts on another one though, another smile that’s big and genuine, but less intimate and replies,”I fucking love hugs, mate.” 

He wants to blame it on being drunk, but he’s just tipsy, so the mewl he lets out when Harry tugs him into his arms is embarrassing. It’s just that Harry is as big as he looks and wrapped in his arms Louis feels small, but not that small in which no one notices or cares, the small where he’s protected. Where he feels like Harry will carry him everywhere and that’s horrifying, but he can’t bring himself to let go as Harry’s scent wraps around him and assaults his senses. Louis mutters something about wanting to sleep there and pulls Harry a little bit closer, glad for once that the traffic of the city washes out the whispers that the wind is supposed to carry. 

Harry never wants to let go, so when Louis pulls him closer he complies and squeezes a little tighter because this feels eerily like home and when he gets the perfect shot or when the leaves are falling off the trees in Central Park and he gets to watch them. When Louis moves a little closer again, Harry’s heart swells because Louis is big and small. Big in personality, big in laughter, big in smiles, but small in feelings and needs and stature. Harry wants to fix that — he wants to give him someone to cling to and he knows that’s stupid and strange, but Louis fits perfectly in his arms and smells like heaven. Something to add on to the cliches that are fate and destiny.

Harry lets go and pulls away before he has the chance to do something stupid, like propose. He wants to ask Louis how he feels about soulmates and destiny and fate, but instead he offers a small nod and a genuine smile and walks across the street as the pedestrian sign pops up. 

When he cross he turns right, it’s not towards his house, no, but he wants to watch as Louis turns around and walks away. When Louis is out of his sight he walks back the direction he’s supposed to go. He stops in front of the train station, but shakes his head because it’s been a long night, but there’s so much in his head he has to work out. 

He wants love, he wants people, he wants affection, but this is intense and intimidating. This feels like something he has no control over and he really doesn’t need anymore situations where he can’t make his own decisions, so he walks home slowly, trying to figure out a way to push Louis into a normal part of his brain. He instead focuses on the fact that he absolutely has to get some shots of the bridge at night. The graffiti is strewn all over the otherwise steady and firm structure. It makes it playful. The words of love and bullshit scribbled all over make the bridge almost seem vulnerable, just like the artists that left their mark.  
————————————

The week goes normally for both of them. Louis works and works some more, trying not to pass out from the exhaustion of not having slept more than 4 hours a night and Harry walks aimlessly around his campus trying to figure out what the fuck he’s doing with his life. They both live in a permanent state of existential crisis. There’s always a why and a what and a who am I hanging around in the shadows of their minds.

Louis wants to get a real job. He wants to have a career. He was never an idealist, always a careerist. He wants a salary. He really just wants to stop working at places where his role is much like that of a roach. He wants to be successful and great and be able to fucking sleep during the week, but he doesn’t know what to do. 

Harry doesn’t want a real job, no career. Well, not the conventional kind at least. He wants happiness and cameras and cityscapes and galleries. He wants freedom and recognition. Mostly, he wants to do what he loves. 

They have one thing in common, Harry and Louis. When they have time to breathe and can let their thoughts roam, they travel to the upcoming weekend. Harry skips over his usual excitement for photography Saturday and leaps right into football Sunday which turns into Louis Sunday faster than he could’ve imagined. It’s no longer about connections home and endorphins and exercise. It’s about seeing the boy with the fringe and the eyes that give away everything he’s trying to hide.

Louis likes to pretend that getting next Sunday off was the only reason why his thoughts went to Central Park, but really every time he closed his eyes he saw green and curls. He was infuriated and he, of course, was disgusted by it, but he couldn’t help it when the traffic got light at his jobs and his brain defaulted to Harry. He remembers all too clearly the way the green of the traffic lights lit Harry’s face and how a stupid hug made him feel more loved than he had in years.

So yeah, he totally wasn’t looking forward to next Sunday.  
Except he was.  
——————————————————-  
When Sunday rolls around Louis jumps out of bed and into the shower, dressing and packing up before Zayn even blinks away the sleep.

“What’s the rush?”

“Nothing, just have a match today.”  
“You normally have a match, but the alarm has to go off about twelve times before you’ll even sit up, Lou.”

“I have to go.”

“Say hi to Harry for me.”

“I hate you.”

“Well you love Harry, Niall told me all about it.”

“I’m going.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I won’t even do the things you would do.”

“I’m pure!” Zayn screams as Louis scrambles out the door.

Louis chuckles and retorts,” I know what kind of porn you watch, mate. You can’t lie to me.”  
Zayn turns into his pillow to hide his blush as if the walls to the apartment were invisible and tries to remember how to breathe between his bouts of laughter. He peeks out the window to see Louis sprinting to the bridge and smiles because something has changed and it’s going to be fun to watch. Even more fun than porn.  
Maybe.

Harry goes about his regular schedule, making fun of Liam for a little bit longer this time before heading out the door. He couldn’t sleep all night, so he’s tired, but excited. He’s still a little creeped out by the fact that his Saturday was full of taking shots that were immediately followed by “I wonder if Louis likes this?” He jumps on the train this time and when he runs into Louis a little less than a quarter mile out from Central Park he sends a silent prayer to whatever deity rules the earth, and calls out his name.

“Louis!”

Louis stills, trying to contain the grin on his face and stop the genuine joy he feels. Harry reaches him and pulls him into a tight hug before Louis can even respond. He’s amazed because even outside, surrounded by the smell of trash and the heavy concentration of pollution, he can still smell Harry. He pulls away this time and smiles before continuing to walk.

“So you’re stalking me now?”

“My answer depends on whether or not you’d be flattered if I was.”

“I wouldn’t be”

“So it’s a good thing I’m not a stalker then isn’t it?”

“I suppose. What would you have said if I told you that I liked the idea of being stalked?”

Harry pretends to think, shuffling out of the way of a large group of tourists strolling down the same path.

“I would have still told you I wasn’t stalking you, but I would have immediately initiated a plan to figure out how to. You would have woken up to me sitting in front of your door with your favorite tea and a smile.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Well, you don’t like stalkers if you don’t like creepy.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Why on earth would it be mutually exclusive?”

“Maybe you like attention, but don’t like to feel unsafe?”

“Then post nudes on the internet!”

“Speaking from experience Harry? I can’t associate with people who just show their private areas to anyone.”

“Not at all. I’m very particular about who I want to see my ‘private areas’,” he jokes, skipping ahead to sit down in the grass on the usual field they play on and put on his boots. Louis’ breath hitches because Harry has the sun beaming off the side of his face and he’s so fucking tired of lights casting shadows on this lad’s face and making his heart beat faster because that’s for love and other bullshit he doesn’t really have time for. 

“Our conversations take very sharp turns in directions I didn’t even know existed.”

“It’s all you, you’re the strange one.”

Louis turns and gasps, eyes wide with his palm splayed over his chest. Harry glares humor sparkling in his eyes. Affection that shouldn’t be there shining through after only a week.

“You an actor? Because that’s some of the best acting I’ve seen in my life.”

“Never tried.”

“You should give it a go. I’ve never seen anyone capture indignant so well.”

Louis chuckles, “you’re a little shit.”

Harry puts down his boot and brings his hand to his chest, mocking Louis’ previous position. Louis doubles over with laughter because he wasn’t expecting it and just sits down on the ground next to him. 

“You’re not an actor. Don’t give it a go,” Louis manages after a while, giggles still spurting through the hand he’s placed over his mouth. 

“I”m more behind the scenes anyway.”

Louis mumbles something to himself about how Harry’s face was made for the camera while the younger lad stretches. Harry jumps up and his shirt rises with him. Louis’ mouth goes dry and he tightly grips his thighs to get a hold of himself because v lines should not come that high and was that an extra nipple? 

Harry catches Louis’ stare out the side of his eye and smirks. Louis doesn’t catch it because he’s still busy trying to moisten his mouth without having to do something conspicuous like chug a water bottle. Then he trails his eyes down Harry’s body only to spot the bulge in his shorts and finds the solution to his problem as he’s practically drooling. He doesn’t understand how one person can be so attractive. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at Harry when the younger lad looks down and raises an eyebrow. “Just thinking about the hell of night I’m going to have.”

Louis stops to think about the phrasing of his sentence and is in a heap on the ground in a fit of laughter again. Harry nudges him with his foot and when Louis finally looks up nods towards the field. Louis quickly pulls on his boots and runs out to the field with Harry joining their different games. They both look at each other from across the grass and come to the same conclusion. Both squads are playing mini games with a few men and they could just combine and play a real match. Harry turns to run to Louis to find that he’s already halfway to him.

Louis stops, breathing heavy from his sprint. “I thought we could combine our teams?”

“I just told my team the same thing, “ Harry replies, giddy with the fact that they shared the same idea. Louis cocks his head to the side with a soft smile and just shakes his head before running over to grab his team. 

The match is good. More strenuous than usual since they lengthened the field to accommodate two full teams, but fun. Harry claps Louis on the back afterwards and congratulates him on not hitting anyone in the face, but then tells him he made up for it by losing a boot at the end of the match. Louis smacks Harry upside the head with the one shoe he does have and jokes about the lovely fall he took.

“Well, you would have thought that I hit you in the face with the ball the way you fell halfway through the match.”

“The sun was in my eye!” Harry says indignantly. The truth is that he had caught Louis out the corner of his eye and got distracted by the muscles in his thighs and the way his shirt clung to him when drenched in sweat. However, he figured he should save that for his midnight journal entries instead of confessing to what sounds like a wet daydream. “Plus, you lost a bloody boot! You can hardly talk.”

“I should probably find that,” Louis says, thinking about how he doesn’t have the money for a new pair and can’t afford to use the shoes he uses for work to play, but he doesn’t say it. They reach their bags and he packs his stuff away. Harry reaches for his cellphone to check the time and then takes out his camera. 

“The behind the scenes comment makes much more sense now.”

Harry blushes and raises the camera to snap a picture of Louis who just put on his beanie. “Hey! Isn’t it like professional ethic that you have to ask before you take a picture?”

“There would be hundreds of famous photos that wouldn’t exist if anyone followed that rule. I’m not a professional either and I know you would’ve said no.”

“You do not know any such thing,” Louis says. The words sound so unbelievable he just grins and plays it off as a joke.

“Sure. I’m about to take some shots around the park, did you want to join me?”

The words are out of his mouth before he even has time to think. “No can do. Sorry mate. I have to leave now so I can meet Zayn on the other side of the bridge.”  
“Zayn?”

Louis raises his eyebrows at the sudden bass in Harry’s voice, eyes dancing with humor at the twinge of jealousy his acquaintance of a week feels because he’s meeting his best mate.

“Best mate and roommate.”

“Cool,” Harry responds half-heartedly. “Do you have a cellphone so I can take your number or something?”

“No, I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Are you just saying that because you don’t want to talk to me?”

“No, if I didn’t want to talk to you I would just tell you I don’t want to give you my number because I don’t want to talk to you. I really don’t have a phone.”

Harry gasps, shocked because it’s the 21st century and there are still people without cell phones. Louis just laughs at his reply and opens his arms for a quick hug. Harry puts down his camera and pulls Louis into his arms. It’s a combination of sweat and whatever deodorant both lads use, but they still feel comfortable and for some insane reason both of them think the combination smells good. 

Harry lets go with a nervous cough and Louis drops his gaze to his feet. “See you next week then maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t always get the day off,” Louis replies, genuinely upset about the possibility that he might not be able to come back. 

“Well, I hope you do.”

“We can hope. See you next time!”

Harry watches as Louis walks away. He stares down at his camera on his bag and instead of picking it up sits down in the grass next to it. It turns out hope is heavy and it makes his legs feel like lead. 

He stands up eventually and puts on his bag. He walks with his camera in hand back down the way he came and thanks the technology gods for Louis’ lack of a phone because if he had one Harry would have done something stupid like text him “miss you already.“  
————————————————-

When Louis gets off the bridge, he’s greeted by Zayn. He is genuinely happy to see him and glad that his statement didn’t turn out to be a lie because he had no idea Zayn was going to be sitting there waiting for him again. 

Zayn spots Louis and gets up from his seat. “I was worried I was going to be sitting here waiting all night because you and loverboy were going to go fuck in the forest or something.”

“I have more class than that and he’s not my loverboy and I was happy you were here now I just think you’re a wanker.”

Zayn pulls him into a hug that Louis fight against for a moment before collapsing against him. When he feels the arms tighten around his shoulders he knows that Zayn has figured out that there’s something bothering him. 

“What happened?” Zayn questions, words a bit muffled by the side of Louis’ face.

“I think I like him and that’s weird and scary and creepy.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to like him and I barely know him and it’s weird Zayn,” Louis complains into the younger lad’s neck.

Zayn doesn’t say anything back. He never does when Louis gets like this. He knows that if he were to say anything that felt a bit like a lecture to Louis nothing good would come of it. They’re close, but Louis hasn’t told him much of anything. He just knows from experience that loss and hurt and horrible experiences with love, make people like Louis. People who don’t want to have feelings or enjoy people. There’s a terror that lies just underneath Louis’ skin that prevents him from letting anyone in.  
Zayn is stupidly hoping this guy has some sort of skill that can capture Louis’ darkness and take it away from him. They’re about halfway to a fairy tale already just from the circumstances of the past couple of weeks, but he knows reality is a harsh thing, that it’s more likely to play out like tragedy. 

When Louis pulls away he turns down pizza and stays quiet the entire way home. He showers and hops into bed. He’ll be damned if he ever admits that the first thing he saw when he closed his eyes was a combination of green and curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. sorry guys. This is lengthy. I'm hoping it's not bad. I love this story, but I don't know if anyone else likes it.


End file.
